Midnight
by Laluzi
Summary: A Breton mage finds herself encountering a certain mysterious man at every other turn. Just who is this apparent 'guardian angel', and what does he want with her? When things begin to fall apart, where do they have left to turn to? -Dead fic.
1. Dusk

**Disclaimer: I don't own Oblivion, and enjoy!**

Skingrad was a beautiful city at night.

Fireflies darted under the streetlamps like benign will-o-the-wisps, while the stars and twin moons cast a a soft ambient light over the ornately carved statue of Rislav the Righteous. A man – clearly out of town, by his dark cloak and rather shady appearance – drew in a deep breath, savoring the town's air. A quaint, nearby patch of flax and ginseng flowers lent the most predominant fragrance, but he could also draw in a much more sublime aroma – fresh grapes, cheese, and the honey of sweetrolls... Yes, it had been a while, but this place hadn't changed in the least. His old friend certainly knew how to run a county.

To say that the hooded stranger did not leave home often would be an understatement. He was the type who tended to deal with paperwork rather than the more... hands-on... business he had been assigned to undertake now. It wasn't that he was unskilled in this line of work – he was easily among the best – but he'd gotten the desk job simply because he was the only one in the Cheydinhal sanctuary that could stand it.

Vicente Valtieri was in Skingrad to end a life, but to hell if it meant he couldn't enjoy the fresh air for once.

The contract was a simple one. A certain Lazare Milvan had apparently made enemies on the wrong side of the law, and said enemies had called on Sithis to welcome him to the void. The contract had not requested a specific form of murder – normally, this meant Vicente would treat himself to fine dining along with the payment in gold, but he wasn't feeling particularly thirsty this night.

His target was apparently a Breton noble living in one of the large houses on the north side of Skingrad, not too far from the Mages Guild. Which was where he stood now; it wasn't so late that the door would be locked, although he'd brought along a few picks just in case. He tested it – sure enough, it was open, not that a padlock would shut out the Night Mother's will. He pulled the brass knocker and took a step back, his cloak rasping on the cobblestone. His fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the hilt of his glass longsword as he waited. It had been a long time since it had tasted blood, but its edges were as honed as ever.

A man with mordantly blonde hair in green brocade finally answered the door after a rather long period of time, giving Vicente a very critical look.

"Greetings, Mr. Milvan," the vampire said, inclining his head. "A fine night to you."

No harm in being polite, he supposed, although perhaps he really was desperate for some new people to talk with if he was resorting to conversing with his targets.

"I have no time for you, peasant. Sir Lazare Milvan would never be caught talking to one of low birth such as yourself. Begone."

Under his hood, Vicente blinked.

_I can see why somebody wants you dead,_ he mused. _Honestly, people these days._

Well, now was as good a time to get to business as any...

"Ah," he said, still in his smoothest cadences as he slipped into the foyer and pulled the door shut behind him, "that _is_ a problem."

He lowered his hood, flashing the doomed man a grin full of fangs.

"You, my dear knight, have an appointment with Sithis, and he does not take no for an answer."

0o0o0

Not long afterwards, Vicente found himself lounging against on of Tamika's barrels of grapes, absentmindedly cleaning off his blade with a bit of cloth.

If that man had been a real knight, then he, Vicente Valtieri, was one of the Nine Divines.

He had met farmers who fought better with rakes and hoes than _Sir_ Milvan had fared with his steel sword. Such miserable posture, and he had been all flourishes and ostentatious moves that were not only unlikely to strike, but greatly tired out whoever was using them. He doubted that the Breton had ever slain anything more ferocious than a deer.

Well, he certainly wasn't going to get any better at it now, lying in a pool of his own blood.

At least Milvan hadn't yelled for help. If he had, then Vicente would not have had the liberty of loitering in one of his favorite counties for a few hours afterward, enjoying the flavored air and debating what he could say to Janus if he broke in through his window again to say hello.

It was then that he heard the faint hum of voices.

As a creature of the night, all of his senses were keener than most – but even as it was, in front of the Chapel, he couldn't make out what was being said. The half-muttering, half-whispering had to be coming from behind it, too, unless his ears were playing tricks on him. His interest was immediately piqued. Secret meetings at... he glanced at the clocktower... two-thirty in the morning? That was a brightly advertised sign screaming 'Hello, I am having shady dealings, please come observe and subsequently arrest me' to any nearby guards, he knew from his line of work... but there was nobody around. Except him. And he was definitely not guard material.

He could have just ignored it, but as fate would have it, Vicente was _bored_. Odds were, he wouldn't have to take another contract for another few years. He was generally only assigned contracts which specifically required his talents as a vampire, which were very rare, or when the workload piled up enormously, as it was now. With the Emperor's death and the entire world seeming to think the world would end tomorrow, everybody seemed to want to get their grudges settled _today_. It was amusing, really. And anything to let him stretch his legs every now and then.

Curious in spite of himself, the vampire shimmied up the stonework, carefully making his way across the chapel roof until he sat at the back edge. Peering down, he was met with a mildly unusual sight – although by his standards, it was fairly unsurprising. A slender, brown-haired Breton woman, perhaps in her early twenties, by the angles of her face - Vicente had to admit, he had not been studying women for a long time – was speaking in low and rather urgent tones to a Bosmer who instantly set Vicente's hackles up. There was just something about him, something unpredictable and _wrong_. He was not unfamiliar with this sort of intuition – as a vampire, he was much more in touch with his instincts than the living. By walking the fine line between civilized man and feral beast, he had gained a rather tenuous but unique position; he enjoyed most of the benefits of society amidst his own... unique... family - the rest of society, less so, as the few times he'd tried to walk into a tavern without his hood up had not ended well - while gaining strengths and aptitudes that his mortal Brothers and Sisters could only dream of. And one of those instincts was screaming a clear message to his brain.

_This man isn't stable._

"...I went and tailed him all day, but Surilie wasn't following you. Glarthir, there's no need to be afraid – nobody's spying on you, I'm positive. Snap out of it."

Glarthir? That name rung a bell. The vampire frowned slightly to himself, trying to place it... Ah. In a few of his correspondences with Janus Hassildor, his friend had mentioned a crazy resident in town that occasionally stirred up troubles with wild rumors. Apparently, Glarthir had actually called out the Count as a vampire once, but nobody had believed him due to the fact that he'd already accused Hassildor of being a Telvanni warlord, a were-shark, and Akatosh in disguise. From what Vicente had read, this Glarthir seemed like the type to walk around while holding conversations aloud with nobody, wearing eccentric clothing and creating paranoid alter egos for every citizen in town.

What Vicente was most definitely not expecting was for the Bosmer in question to pull out an axe on the now-paling girl.

"I knew it!" the Wood Elf seethed, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth. "I thought I'd been paying you enough. What did they approach you with, then? And when! I had my suspicions when you tried to clear Peneles, but now I'm certain. You're _one_ of them. They're all after me, and you were always in on it! Maybe _this_ will send a message to them to stop spying on _me_."

What he'd meant by 'this' was fairly clear. Her death.

"Glarthir, wait!" the Breton cried. Absolutely no use, of course – the head case was on the warpath. He lifted the war axe, and she raised her hands as if to shield herself; a spell began to dance at her fingertips, and then shattered outward in a series of fragmented sparks as the Wood Elf brought his axe down.

Vicente drew in a sharp breath, the sweet tang of blood flooding his nostrils. The blow had caught the Breton on the arm as she'd tried to protect her face; not a fatal wound by any means, but it was definitely painful, and the shock of it would hamper even an advanced mage's ability to form spells. She appeared to be otherwise unarmed, not that she had much muscle to use anyway – her lips opened in frantic, silent lines of arcane language, but she could barely muster a few sparks, much less a complete spell. As Glarthir prepared for a second strike, she opened her mouth in a ringing scream – _but there were no guards around_.

He wasn't quite sure why he did it. Being an assassin didn't necessarily make one a psychopath, and Vicente Valtieri was the type of man who would rather sit down with somebody to hold an enlightened conversation about books or art than stab him repeatedly and dance on his corpse - and he'd seen plenty of that type, ugh. Furthermore, he wasn't on contract.

But regardless, the vampire did not make it a daily habit of saving lives, much less those of pitiful mages who couldn't even cast a simple shield spell upon receiving a wound. And he _hated_ the screaming ones.

Either way, Vicente found himself reacting before he even recognized that he was going to interfere. He slid off the steeple and landed on the ground as silently as a Khajiit in the forest, twisting around and bringing his longsword up through Glarthir's ribcage in one fluid motion before the Wood Elf could even register the appearance of a another person. The Bosmer's eyes widened in a rather amusing look of quizzical horror, and he crashed to the ground as Vicente withdrew his blade, blood soaking into the grassy ground like spilled wine.

His hood had flown up a bit in the fall; instinctively, he shifted it back to cover his gaunt features. It wouldn't do to have the damsel in distress start screaming for the guards to save her from the scary vampire, he mused. Well, Sithis would have to make do with a lunatic for the night rather than a young maiden. It was still an addition to the snotty Breton noble that he'd been designated.

Wordlessly, he sheathed his sword and faced the Gold Road. Yes, he was ready to return to the Sanctuary – he'd had his share of Skingrad. In any case, the guards would be arriving soon, given the screaming, and he _so_ did not want to have something like that spoil his evening.

"Wait," panted a voice from behind him, and he paused, pivoting around slightly.

The girl was getting to her feet, her eyes trained on his face; only what she could see of him, he reminded himself. Whether this was because she wanted to keep him in her sight or because she was determined not to look at the very dead Bosmer that was staining the ground so near her, he wasn't sure. Closer up, he could make out a bit more of her looks. She was fair-skinned, with a smattering of freckles across the top of her cheeks. Her eyes were blue chips of ice, or they would have appeared so, if the fear hadn't been so evident in them. His initial guess on her age hadn't been wrong - her cheeks were in that transition stage between soft childhood fullness and more angular maturity, and her overall slim figure was a result of legs that seemed a little too long for her body.

She was doing her best to keep a steady, unaffected facade, but he could hear her heart racing with the shock she'd so recently underwent, and her hands were shaking as she brought up a flickering white flame of Restoration magic to heal her arm. For a long time, she just stared.

"Who are you?" she finally managed to ask.

Under the hood, an involuntary smile tweaked the vampire's lips.

"Nobody," he replied, and turned away.


	2. Aftermath

Avielle Fradaun was not having a good week.

For starters, her first task in the Arcane University could hardly have been considered a success. She'd been looking forward to joining the University for years, expressly because it was said to be so much better-organized and calm than the 'fringe' of the scattered guildhalls across Cyrodiil. Undertaking every guildhall's accumulated problems and being sent all over the province was by no means enjoyable, but she bore it while clinging to the hope that once she was done with it, she was done with it, and she'd be able to settle down in the University to simply _learn_.

But apparently, even the Imperial City's haven for mages was not free of strife.

She'd gone done to Wellspring Cave fully charged and whistling, thinking optimistically about how from here on it would be a clear path forward. No more errant tasks and grunt work – she was through with marching through marauder-infested halls and retrieving unnaturally heavy signet rings from wells containing dead Associates. She could sit down to study and practice, and _maybe_ she'd try to make her fortune with that adventuring business when she was much, much more experienced. Honestly, why anyone would willingly walk into a crumbling ruin filled with people intent on killing you was beyond her.

She'd come back from Wellspring Cave with considerably less magicka and _much_ less whistling, realizing that after all her toil, she'd simply stepped into yet another Guildhall with its own set of issues... and that if past experience was worth anything, the newbies _always_ ended up shouldering the fieldwork.

Avielle was not familiar with enchantment, so she'd shouldered off the ornately carved _stick_ that was her only reward for battling through a group of murderous necromancers to Delmar, the man in charge of the Chironasium. He seemed a nice enough man, but her mood had not been very charitable at the time; she'd have to apologize later for her snappishness. She'd been delighted to find that she could attain a free staff of paralysis – she was fairly skilled in alteration, restoration, and destruction, but all illusion magic besides the simplest charm spells eluded her. And being able to freeze enemies long enough to pepper them with fire and lightning would make any sticky situation she got into much easier.

She had not been so delighted to hear that it would take a whole week to enchant, so she'd gone back to her favorite town to wait, trying not to acknowledge the sinking realization that being a mage was not a free ride once you'd climbed up the ladder to the University. Of course, Raminus had acted completely shocked at the fact that Eletta and Zahrasha were dead at the hands of necromancers. It would be just like her luck to have all the problems begin _just_ as she arrived.

A week off in Skingrad could calm anyone's nerves. Usually.

Then Glarthir went and tried to kill her.

She'd been attempting to gently coax him out of his paranoia for a while now – Skingrad was a town she spent plenty of time in. She knew its shopkeepers, its citizens, its beggars... and then there was the Wood Elf eccentric. She'd taken pity upon the paranoid resident quickly after meeting him, but after realizing that no amount of her frail calm spells could settle him down, she'd actually went through the trouble to watch all of the 'spies' that he'd marked out to assure him that none of them were actually after him. To think that Bernadette Peneles was a spy, that sweet girl... if anything, his wild accusations had somehow made him seem less dangerous.

It had never even occurred to her that she was gravitating towards the suspect list.

The complete spontaneity of the attack had stunned her. She was not a stranger to combat, but even now, in her confused state, some part of her mind was realizing that she might have to rethink her usual tactics. She'd always scoffed at weapons, considering them barbaric and beneath her – but it was all too clear now that her age old tactic of 'don't let them close in on you' could fail before she even realized she was in combat. Whenever she found herself facing angry beasts or undead, she would throw spells at them – first a slow but potent spell she'd learned from her mother that gradually damaged one's speed until they could barely walk, and then repeated elemental bolts until whatever was pursuing her either gave up or perished. When facing people, she usually tossed the speed-diminishing spell at them and then ran away. Killing was not something she was comfortable with.

Anyone who relied on that sort of evasive strategy couldn't afford to be surprised.

Her arm was mostly healed now, at least, her magic having done its work, but minutes ago it had been cleaved almost to the bone. The awful, visceral feeling of something tearing into your flesh... she'd received plenty of fire and frost burns in her time, but in retrospect, her natural resistance to magicka had taken off the edge to every last one of them; some of the more serious injuries she'd received probably could have killed her had she been any other race. And while archers were more tricky to deal with, she did know one particular spell that could ward off arrows, although it was difficult to maintain for long. Where physical wounds were concerned, she hadn't actually received much more than a scratch or scrape for a few years, and had been horrified to realize that the pain was all she could focus on in her panic. Even a minor healing spell had fizzled out at her fingertips. If she'd had a dagger, she could have used it to defend herself, but as things had been, she could only look up and think _sweetMaraI'mgoingtodie_.

If it hadn't been for that stranger, she would have. And that was a scary thought.

Where had that man come from? If she didn't know any better, she'd guess that he'd slid off the Chapel roof, but nobody could withstand that kind of fall without at least breaking their leg. Black and green... the swish of a cloak – who _was_ he, anyways, wearing a cloak – and the flash of a blade carved from green glass... One stroke and the Elf she'd worked so hard to soothe was on his knees, blood pouring from his mouth like an overturned bucket of rainwater.

He'd been so... unaffected. He'd practically sliced somebody in half, and then turned away to leave without a word. She'd been forced to kill in some of the more heated situations she'd gotten into, but once her head had cleared, the reality of what she'd done usually froze her for a while, that she'd actually claimed somebody else's life. It seemed so wrong, so hard to wrap your head around... and he'd just walked off with only a backwards glance and a single word.

"Nobody." _I am nobody._

His hood had covered all of his features, but that one word had revealed a velvety High Rock accent, even thicker than her own. He was definitely a Breton, then, and tall... but there was nothing else, nothing as he'd taken one step forward and – without a single arcane word or gesture – cloaked himself in the darkness.

It was some form of invisibility, and a powerful spell, at that – but it couldn't have been a spell for him to cast it without any prompt. She knew that she could occasionally muster up a powerful shield spell that she could cast as such, but that was a well-known ability that all Bretons had.

Part of her wondered if it had all even happened. A hooded stranger appearing from nowhere to save her life, then vanishing as suddenly as he'd came... perhaps she'd taken a spell to the head too hard.

The clatter of footsteps snapped her out of her daze – the guards were finally coming. She looked up, squinting to make them out in the darkness. One of them was Dion, the captain, judging from his unusually dark complexion, while the other was one of the lower-ranked guards she'd seen patrolling the town.

It then occurred to her that it did not necessarily look good to be the only one present at a crime scene, much less so one involving _Glarthir._ Dion had known that she'd been involved with the town eccentric for as long as she'd been working with him, and that made her a suspect to begin with.

_What have I gotten myself into...?_

Dion took one look at the dead Wood Elf and fixed Avielle with a glare that could burn holes through ebony. "Stay where you are!" he barked.

As if she was in any position to flee, half-crouched and half on her knees.

"What is this? I told you to come to me if anything happened with Glarthir. Regardless of how crazy he was, this is still murder!"

"Sir, if I may...?" The other guard spoke, seeming somewhat nervous at contradicting his superior.

"What is it?" Dion snapped, not taking his eyes off Avielle.

"Sir, there's no way she could have done this," the other guard said cautiously. "This was done by a skilled swordsman, and she's unarmed."

"There's an axe on the ground right there."

"This was done by a sword," the guard protested, kneeling down to get a closer look at Glarthir's mortal wound. "Look at this cut; it's wider than the axe, and a much cleaner sweep besides. That thing is pretty rusty; it wouldn't slice so neatly. Besides, just look at her. Can you see her even being able to lift a weapon like that?" He gestured to the battleaxe at Glarthir's side. "It looks to me like he attacked her first."

While it was said in her defense, the remark still stung somehow. Avielle bit her lip, but decided that in the situation, it was best not to speak until spoken to.

Dion mulled it over for a second. "Is this what happened?"

Avielle opened her mouth to explain, but she was cut off before she could utter a single syllable.

"Dion, sir!" Another guard raced towards the captain, his helmet slightly ajar. As he approached, Avielle noticed that he looked young and panicked; his helmet was ajar, and beads of sweat shone on his face.

"Something to report?" Dion asked irritably, wondering what could be more important than a slaughtered citizen on his watch.

"Yes, s-" The guard stopped, noticing that the nearby Glarthir looked rather less alive than usual. Definitely a new guard, then, by the way he went white to the roots of his hair – spending time in the Imperial Legion meant you'd get to see your fair share of corpses. Finally managing to pry his eyes away from the bloodied Wood Elf, he bit his lip and straightened his posture into a more dignified manner. "Yes, sir. Lazare Milvan was just discovered dead in his house. Murdered, by the looks of it."

Dion rubbed his temple, suddenly very, very tired.

It was going to be a long night.

0o0o0

Nearly a day later, Vicente arrived back at the Sanctuary.

In a way, he could travel much faster than any of his Dark Siblings. He didn't ride – horses would panic if he tried to approach them – but he could outstrip all but the finest steeds on foot, and the action barely tired him at all. Still, he had his own impediments.

The night had not been young when he'd left Skingrad, and the distance from there to Cheydinhal could not be covered in three hours. Newer vampires could tolerate the sun if they kept themselves well-fed, but time eventually blurred the distinct separate stages of vampirism, leaving his abilities and appearance fairly static on the far end of the spectrum. Soon after feeding, his features would fill out slightly, but nowhere near the degree they had three hundred years ago, back when he was young and could still walk under the sun. Which he could not now – all the blood in the world would not make a difference to an old vampire in that matter, and he was no exception.

He'd waited out the day in one of the ruined forts that dotted Cyrodiil's landscape, casually decapitating the trio of bandits that were brilliant enough to target a vampire. One of them had been carrying a rather fancy Elven dagger that he might give to Ocheeva as a present later, if she could snap Antoinetta out of her garlic fetish.

It was perhaps one in the morning when Vicente inserted the key into the well and climbed back into the world he was much more acquainted with – and that was much more acquainted with him.

"Greetings, Brother." Teinaava was sitting at the table wedged in the far corner, looking up from one of the books Vicente had lent him. "Your contract went well, I trust?"

The vampire smiled, languidly tossing his hood back. "Yes, although it has been a while since I have tested my skills. I have to say, while I'm not familiar with the details of the contract, the target certainly deserved his death. When I tried to greet him, he..."

It was only a while later, with the Argonian once more engrossed in his book and Vicente standing at the heavy double doors to his quarters, that he realized that in his retelling of the kill, he'd completely failed to mention the other events that had transpired that night.

He placed a hand on the door, welcoming the familiar creak as it slowly swung open. Perhaps there really was no need, though. The lives of those unconnected to the Brotherhood had no value to his family. There were always the potential recruits, of course, but remembering the girl's complete lack of preparedness, the raw fear in her eyes – both of Glarthir, and him – he could not possibly see her ever being a part of the Brotherhood.

_Her life can go on as it always had_, he mused. Hopefully she'd learn something from it. Honestly, anyone who went around unarmed was just asking for somebody to attack them.

The vampire sat down on the stone slab he called a bed – really, though, he couldn't remember how he'd ever slept on a real bed. They were so... squishy. The give had made it feel like he was somehow drowning on land, not that breathing was a necessity of his and drowning was a possibility to begin with. But the solid stone block was much more comfortable on his back.

He set down his longsword and its scabbard next to his chest of belongings, where his enchanted claymore – finely wrought ebony – gleamed proudly from its stand. He preferred saving that for more difficult contracts, and he did not regret leaving it behind for this one. A conceited knight... and a raving lunatic... were hardly worth staining its blade. His thoughts started to wander again as he settled down into a comfortable position.

It was none of his concern, anyways. Her life had been a whim of his; he'd chosen to save it, and he had no ties to wherever it went from there.

That was what it meant to be a part of the Brotherhood, and Vicente Valtieri had no regrets.

He folded his arms across his chest and let sleep carry him off into his nightmares.


	3. Obligations

**Author's Note: I do not own Oblivion, the province of Cyrodiil, or any of its residents besides Avielle Fradaun.**

**Awright. Author's note is just in the story, I guess? Huh. On another fanfiction site I wrote for some years back, they had a separate input for forenotes and footnotes, as so to not skew the word count. Oh well. It's easier to ramble in here, anyways.**

**Arty – Thanks for reviewing! I hope to make her more prepared throughout the course of the story, but I wanted her to start off fairly naïve. However, she isn't inexperienced – she just isn't well-rounded. As for the bed, heh, there has to be some reason a vampire would choose to sleep on a stone block.**

**DualKatanas – As ever, you're an extremely helpful reviewer. :D I'm glad you're taking the time to review my story.**

**Firstly, I'll admit, I never even considered a bound sword. I guess it's because I never use Conjuration in that way – I like my weapons permanent and containing nice Absorb Health enchantments. So let's just say the guard never thought of it? :B**

**Secondly, I guess I never thought about making Oblivion larger than it is in game. Just now, I took my vampire to 100% vampirism and ran from Skingrad West Gate to the Sanctuary's well – it took virtually no time, but then again, I was wearing 100% chameleon getup and I ignored every hinderance on the road. Regardless... I think I'm going to have to stick with the smaller, easier-to-traverse Oblivion that I'm familiar with. Mind you, he was running full-tilt the whole time he was traveling. If we have characters in groups later, they're more liable to walk, thus taking longer.**

**Lastly, with the vampirism age constraints – I took that upon my own liberty. Creative license, you can call it. I create my vampires out of a mix of different stories (do not fear, Twilight has no part in it), although I have to say out of any one 'breed' of vampires, the Cyrodiilic vampires are really well-thought-out. The way I see vampirism is that the ability to blend into society soon after feeding is more of a transition stage than a permanent thing. As the vampire gets older, he becomes more of a creature of the night, and less like he was beforehand – as if some lingering trace of life remained and slowly faded over the years. I'll use an example of my reasoning behind this; it's said that the first stage of vampirism can blend in unnoticed among society, and it does, if you have a vampire PC. But if that's the case, then why does Hassildor never come out of the castle? If he could reach what we consider 25% vampirism, he'd look 'normal' to all of his citizens, he'd be unaffected by the sun, and really, he wouldn't have to be such a complete hermit. Poor introverted Hassy. :( **

**And a final note – while I'm by no means a novice writer, I do have an unfortunate tendency to turn characters I like into Sues. And I really, really like Vicente. So I am making an effort to keep him real, but later on, if he starts becoming Sue-y, please whack me gently but firmly. Nobody likes Sues, myself included, but it can be hard to realize when they're forming.**

**Hoo boy. Long note. Hopefully it won't be so long next time. Anyway, enjoy the story!**

**('[]')**

"Paralysis. Ten second duration. One of my finer works, if I may say so myself." The Redguard proffered the newly completed staff to the Breton.

After the guards had finished questioning her, Avielle had returned to the Skingrad guildhall to ask, as casually as she could, if anyone knew of a cloaked stranger in town. Unsurprisingly, nobody had, so she'd left Skingrad for the Imperial City, where she'd stopped at _A Fighting Chance_ to purchase a weapon before spending the rest of her waiting time at the University.

The smith, Rohssan, had been a kindly woman who'd helped the weaponry novice choose something to wield. They'd both agreed right off the bat that Avielle would have difficulty using anything heavier than a dagger, and she'd eventually settled on a silver one that fit rather nicely in her grip. It felt strange to carry, but the cold metal soon warmed in her fingers. When she'd mentioned how she'd been assaulted, Rohssan had been generous enough to give her a few basic lessons for free to help her protect herself in the future.

But still, _this_ kind of weapon was what she preferred.

Avielle took the staff into her hands, testing how it felt in her grip. It was the same knotted piece of wood as before, but in the light, a silvery-green resplendence emanated from the finished staff. Its power hummed through her, the skin on her arms breaking out into goose pimples... but it was a good feeling, a satisfying tingle. This kind of staff would cost mountains at Rindir's, and she'd gotten it for free. Well, as free as single-handedly taking on a bunch of necromancers was.

Still, it was a much better prize than a slip of paper. Maybe the Arcane University wasn't going to be so bad after all.

"It's perfect," she sighed as she weighed it. She was no dab hand in the school of illusion, but she knew that a targeted paralysis spell that lasted for ten entire seconds would be beyond the grasp of nearly any mage. She'd chosen wisely.

"I wouldn't use it too much," Delmar cautioned. "A powerful enchantment like that will run out of charge very quickly. Either teach yourself a good Soul Trap spell or be prepared to surrender your wallet to the guild rechargers if you're going to go to town with it."

The Breton smiled at him. "I'm actually planning to get in some good, solid studying sessions at the University for the next month or so, so I don't think I'll need to worry about that yet. I heard somebody around here can teach me a bit of Mysticism anyways. I may just go look for her now. A Dunmer, wasn't she?"

Delmar bit his lip. She seemed so happy, for once, much more so than she'd appeared when she'd stormed into his office a week prior... why was he the one that had to deliver the bad news again?

"Actually, er."

Her blue eyes went from warm to guarded in an instant. "_Yes_?"

He coughed. "Raminus told me he had another assignment for you, and that he'd like to see you straightaway."

The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, suffering the full body-bind that his carefully crafted paralysis enchantment delivered, with a _very_ angry mage standing over him. She tapped her feet, counting the time with each beat.

"Huh. It really is ten seconds," she noted, as the glow around him finally faded. "Not bad."

"What was that for?" he growled, wringing his hands as he got to his feet. Paralysis always left your muscles stiff as hell, and he'd put his best work into this one. He'd still be working the kinks out tomorrow.

Her reply was as sickly sweet as rotted fruit. "If I'm going to be the guild's new errand-girl, then I'd better make sure this thing works okay."

With that, she stomped out, probably to give Raminus Polus a piece of her mind. Delmar rubbed his eyes.

Damn. She was _mad_. And she'd seemed like such an unassuming little thing, too.

Next time, Raminus could go and fetch her himself.

0o0o0

"You know, I came to the University to _get away_ from grunt work," were Avielle's first words to Raminus upon entering the Arch-Mage's lobby. "I thought that once I was here, I could go attend some seminars, listen to some lectures on magical theory from those prats walking around outside..."

"I'm sorry," the Imperial began.

"...and if this is your way of welcoming new members into your fold, then I have a bone to pick with it," she finished, more loudly.

"You'll have plenty of time to study," Raminus apologized. "But I'm afraid we're rather short-staffed at the moment."

"I've had just about enough of battling necrophiliacs for the moment."

The Master Wizard blinked. "Necromancers, Avielle. And your assignment has nothing to do with them for the moment." Count Janus Hassildor of Skingrad... has a... book... of ours that I'm certain he's finished by now. One of our higher-ranked magisters would like it back for some of his research, and you are to retrieve it."

Avielle's eyes nearly popped out. She had to fetch a _book_? This was urgent business how, exactly?

And... _ugh_. Skingrad. She normally loved the town, but right now, she'd had enough of it.

"I'm not sure if you've left the University in the past twenty years, due to you shouldering all of your work off onto insignificant newbies like myself, but I have news for you. I've spent plenty of time in all of the cities, and there's only one Count I've never actually seen. Count Skingrad is fetching agoraphobic. The only way I'm going to see him face-to-face is if I break into his quarters."

By now, Raminus was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Language," he admonished. "And Count Hassildor has certain... ties... with the Mages Guild. Your status as our representative will guarantee you an audience with him." He paused, wondering if he should tell her any more.

Hmph. Perhaps meeting a vampire might knock some sense into her head, so why should he blunt the shock? She needed to start taking things seriously. Weren't magisters supposed to be full of zeal, dying to prove their worth and serve their guild?

His voice took on a more scolding note. "This is a relatively simple task, I might add. There are plenty of more hands-on things your cohorts in the guild are being sent out to do. I gave you this assignment with your recent exploits in mind, you know."

The Breton briefly considered testing out her new staff again, but quickly decided against it. It had been rash, she owed Delmar another apology, and Raminus was right; her job could have been a lot more arduous. She didn't want to start a hate-hate relationship with the person who was starting to look like her employer.

With a sigh, she slung the staff over her back. The sooner she got this over with, the better.

Time to get on the road again.

0o0o0

_Dearest Vicente,_

_I heard you were in town recently. In truth, I'm rather glad you didn't stop by to check in with me; pardon this, but I cannot afford to be linked with your exploits. My reputation is tenuous as it is. I suppose it would be pointless to ask you to stop picking off my citizens? I was never fond of Sir Milvan, and the silencing of Glarthir's rumors is a weight off my shoulders, but if you continue with this sort of morbid efficiency, I fear I shall have no subjects left. Furthermore, I'd rather that Bravil maintained the title of the crime capital of the province._

_Still, when you have time, I hope to see you here in Castle Skingrad to share a drink with me. Have you finished with my copy of Feyfolken III? I do believe it's the only copy in Cyrodiil outside of the Imperial Palace, and I would like you to return it as soon as possible. I know you treat your possessions with care, but you'll have to forgive me for being leery of the other assassins you stay with. Old prejudices do die hard, and I _am_ a nobleman._

_On a different note, I've heard the Mages Guild is turning their interest towards me once again. Pray tell, does our state immediately make us allies with necromancers? Those Guild fools know nothing, and I cannot run a county with children spying on me. I suppose I'll have to let my steward inform me when the eventual lackey arrives. It's only a matter of time._

_I do hope you are well._

_~JH_

Vicente chuckled, folding up the letter and sliding it into his desk. Yes, that was Janus for you. No tact on the surface, but he was a very dear friend to him.

"Ocheeva?" he called.

"Yes?" came the reply from the room above.

Deciding such a raised conversation was impolite to hold, the vampire made his way up the ladder into her quarters, where the Argonian was enjoying a glass of wine at her table. She glanced up at his approach, her orange eyes meeting his own. "What is it, Vicente?"

"Do you particularly need me for anything the next couple of days?"

Ocheeva frowned. "You know that I do not handle paperwork nearly as well as you, and Sithis knows that without you, it accumulates very fast indeed. What did you have in mind?"

"An old acquaintance of mine wants to see me." Vicente shrugged. "Who am I to oppose?"

The Santuary's mistress quickly rifled through the accumulated contracts on her desk, making sure there were none that the others couldn't handle. "No, I suppose you're free to go then, but do return soon. Walk always, dear Brother."

"Night Mother watch over you." He dipped his head, and then made his way into the foyer.

"Teinaava?" Spotting the Argonian in his usual corner, he went up to him.

"Yes, Brother?"

"My sincerest apologies, but I fear I'll be needing that book back sooner than expected..."

0o0o0

"What do you mean, he doesn't want to see me?" Avielle raged. "I was told specifically that he would!"

Mercator Hosidus fixed the Breton with his most pathetic stare. The Count had told him to keep his eyes open for a Mages Guild representative, but he had his own plans where that was concerned.

"Having seen you myself, I cannot blame him," he continued, his cadences dripping acidic condescension. "Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to change his opinion on the matter. Come back in a day after I plead your case."

Not that the Count would agree to see her, of course. No, the two of them would not be meeting. He'd make sure of that.

"But -"

By Mannimarco, she was a thick one. "Has a day passed yet? _No_? Then I really don't have anything more to say to you, do I? Move along."

Avielle watched Mercator Hosidus strut away into some off-limits sector of Castle Skingrad, her fluttering fingers itching to have a go with her staff and wipe that smirk off of his face.

Ugh. She should not have gotten a paralysis staff. It was becoming one hell of a temptation.

She wouldn't be _hurting_ them, would she? No, it was more like... induced humiliation. And well-deserved.

_It's still assault_, she mentally grumbled. But Conceited Brocade Guy was just _begging_ for a nice bolt of paralysis to the back.

Really, could anyone blame her? When she was a young girl in High Rock, her mother had always sat her down on her knee and told her of the beautiful gardens and wondrous facilities that only the Imperial City had held. She had been kicked out of the guild before Avielle was born, due to some particularly dangerous experiments that had ended up claiming the life of some of her fellow magisters. Her mother wasn't a bad person, just blind to risks and wrapped up in a false sense of immunity, and her daughter had worshiped the ground she walked on. Young Avielle had been determined to finish up her mother's dream and become a mage to make her proud, and even in childhood she'd found a remarkable enjoyment in the mysteries of magicka.

Even after her mother's experiments with Destruction magic eventually and inevitably claimed her, her dreams still lived on in her daughter, now fully caught up in them.

And while she hadn't been in the Arcane University long, the Breton was _not_ finding it up to her expectations.

One of the guards cleared her throat. "Do you have an appointment with the Count, miss?"

_Apparently not_. However, it was pretty clear that that was the guard's euphemism for 'you are loitering' and not an honest question.

Time to spend another day in Skingrad. Once upon a time, she'd revel in the prospect, but now it just felt exactly like it was.

Grunt work.


	4. Plot

**Author's Note: I do not own Oblivion or any of its subsequent awesomeness. Sorry to disappoint. D:**

**NoSoundComes – Thank you! I know what you mean – the first chapter was action (and fully presented from the PoV of everyone's favorite vampire assassin), and writing about Avielle isn't as engaging. Regardless, Vicente can't be off being awesome all the time.**

**Arty – even taking the time to review makes me happy. :D I hope you like this next chapter, I tried to work some humor into here.**

**DualKatanas – spelling errors? D: I'm using an annoying offshoot of Microsoft Word because my good computer was just crashed – my mom refuses to let me use it for anything now. I don't like this new program and my fingers just aren't used to this keyboard – a bit small, so I'm finding myself typoing more a lot. If you see any in the future, can you please point them out to me? I'm not a perfectionist, but I get nitpicky about that sort of thing.**

**With her personality – I'll fully admit, when I first started this story, I was writing for the heck of writing something. I wasn't even sure what her name was when I wrote that chapter, much less the plot. :B Now I have a destination in mind, so I'll probably keep things more consistent from here on out. Again, I tried to show a hint of her panicky side in this chapter, blended in with her typical mages' arrogance.**

**Long author's notes? The fact is, I hate private messaging. I don't know why, but it's true. I get tangled up if I can't keep all of my conversations in one place, like a review board and its story (or where I can directly tack a reply onto your review, which I can't do here). Also, posting replies to my reviewers up here is a way of thanking them for taking the time to check out my work. I figure if somebody don't want to read me prattling on, it's easy enough to scroll down anyways. If you'd prefer to not have me reply to your reviews up here, just let me know. :s**

**And with the upload rate – I write fast when I'm into it, as I am now. You can expect it to peter out at some point. Also, I'll update more frequently during the weekends, when I have the time. (I do my writing on weekends and my story planning in class, so it evens out.)**

**Lastly – I started writing this story out of a desire to write, not actually knowing where it was going, but I just had an epiphany regarding some of Avielle's backstory – and from that, an epiphany as to where I'm going to go with this. I can't wait to get to it. I won't spoil it, but I promise that this isn't going to be your average depiction of a character performing a questline or whatever. :D**

"Bad day?" Vigge the Cautious sympathetically asked Avielle as she made her way into the Mages Guild of Skingrad.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that the mage was not in a good mood. If posture was weather, the Breton would be a towering thundercloud, ready to burst forth lightning and hail at the slightest provocation. One could practically see the steam coming from her ears.

Still, she allowed the big Nord to give her a hearty pat on the shoulder that caused her to nearly trip into a wall.

"You could say," she grumbled, rubbing her shoulder. "This one guy at the University, Raminus Polus? He's even worse than Adrienne."

The Nord giggled, possibly the deepest and manliest sound ever to be defined as such. "Keep your voice down, she's just a floor above us."

"That one probably has her nose too deep in a book to hear you if you were to shout her name in her ear," commented Druja, climbing out of the basement. She nodded respectfully to Avielle.

"I beg to differ. She wouldn't hear you if you were shouting her name in her ear while cartwheeling on top of the alchemy tables. Naked," added Sulinus Vassinus with a grin, who was also leaving the basement – probably getting ready to prepare dinner, by the ears of corn he held.

"Sulinus!" admonished Avielle, but the Imperial's good-natured and occasionally bawdy humor was always contagious.

Druja tsked. "You smoothskins and your obsession with the exposed body. I do not understand why the Imperials mandate us to wear second skins when all you seem to wish to do is tear them off each other."

And the Argonian's curious tactlessness that could only come from being born in the exotic tropics of the Black Marsh. This time, Avielle did laugh along with the others, the tension easing from her shoulders. _This_ was the Skingrad she liked, and perhaps the Skingrad she should try to see. She followed the two to the kitchens, ready to lend a hand and maybe show off a bit of her fire magic with heating up the water.

Glarthir had been a freak accident, and it really wouldn't help to dwell on the nightmares of the past, like raving lunatics with war axes and mysterious hooded men...

Regardless of those uncertainties, she did not miss the sudden realization that she was enjoying herself in the quaint guildhall far more than she had in the University.

0o0o0

With a priceless book tucked under one arm and a hood drawn over his face, Vicente waited.

He was sitting on one of the wooden benches in the castle's foyer, idly observing the details of the hall as he waited for the Count to meet him. He was at the far end, almost hidden in the shadows, and that was how he preferred it. One of the guards had noticed him, and was shooting him uneasy glances from time to time, but that was nothing to be concerned about. He was rather asking for it. A full-body black travelling cloak was rather unconditionally suspiscious. It was a bit ironic, really, he noted. He was a Dark Brotherhood assassin – and a vampire – and that guard had hit the nail on the head without even knowing why when he'd chosen to be uneasy about him. But at the same time... he was just here for a chat with a friend. Nothing shady about it at all.

But on the other hand, if he had been on the more shady type of business, he wouldn't have let himself be seen at all. Vicente was very careful on the job... and meticulous. Any guard unfortunate to spot him then wouldn't live to see the next sunrise, not that this had happened in the last eighty or so years.

The doors creaked open, and a figure stepped into the hall – with a mild shock, he realized that it was the same girl from before.

As a vampire, his eyesight was impeccable; any of the guards in the room would have barely been able to make out her features. The torchlight threw her into a much more flattering appearance than the Chapel's shadows had lent. Her face had seemed halfway child and halfway adult then, but the fire's resplendence made her seem closer to adult, casting her high cheekbones and delicate nose in a red-gold light...

...and Vicente was realizing belatedly that he did not see enough human women. Besides _infants_ with sociopathic affinities for garlic and people who'd been scheduled for execution, anyways... but no. She was too young, still not grown completely into her adult body, to be _beautiful_, but there was a certain nonphysical quality about her that he quietly enjoyed from afar. Those eyes had been filled with fear last time he'd seen them, so what he detected now was a refreshing change; part determination and part defiance.

And obvious, completely unshrouded annoyance, but that wasn't so much a part of her personality as it was an event, perhaps.

It occurred to him that he was pleased to see her. Which made sense, he supposed; it would be a pity to go out of his way to actually protect somebody's life only to find out she'd fallen off the castle's bridge or something. He knew from experience and life in the Brotherhood that there was a difference between caring for somebody's life and caring for somebody's _person_, as much as the difference between ownership and familial love had ever been.

She'd been a whim, nothing more, and he was doing himself a disservice by even giving thought to such random notions.

He knew from experience that one could not live in the Brotherhood with ties to outside Tamriel. Janus was an exception, partially because he occupied another shadow world, his position so tenuous that he was in no position to harm the Brotherhood, and partially because nobody really wanted to go up to the two vampires and tell them to scatter. Still, even that simple friendship was dangerous. The vampire's omnipresent nightmares had more than once drifted to scenes where he'd had to assassinate Count Hassildor in Sithis's name.

"You there." Vicente turned to see one of the Count's stewards – an Imperial, Mercator something – approaching the mage from the general vicinity of the dining hall. "I have an update for you."

Avielle eyed the steward with thinly veiled distaste. She certainly seemed... fierier than she had before, but then again, nobody looked their best when being attacked by raving lunatics. She held herself upright, her brown hair falling in cascades over her shoulders, and Vicente noted with approval that she was armed this time. A staff – some kind of illusion magic, judging by the gleam – was slung across her back, and there was a small but functional dagger in her belt. So she _had_ learned.

"What is it?" she asked in a tone that could only be described as mutinous.

"The Count has agreed to see you, but not here. He requests that you meet him in the pasture south of the Cursed Mine to the west of the town. Be there at two o' clock sharp in the morning. The Count does not like to be kept waiting. That is all."

Which struck Vicente as extremely odd, but the girl didn't seem to notice. She tossed her hair slightly and spun on her heel, making for the double doors. "Then I'll see him there tonight."

The Imperial watched her leave, and the vampire did not miss the small grin that played across his mouth when the doors closed behind her.

The girl was the guild representative, then. She had to be a better mage than she'd appeared before, to be entrusted with running tasks for the main part of the guild... spying, Janus had said. But this didn't make sense in itself – a spy would not be arranging meetings with her mark, would she? Unless she was trying to waylay the Count in some sense, in which she'd definitely gotten way over her head. Janus Hassildor could play people and politics as easily as he played chess.

Mercator took a glance to the side, and then made his way towards what Vicente thought was the castle barracks. It was an unusual place for a steward to be, but the vampire could have mixed up the castle's layout.

No sooner had the Imperial left the hall when soft footsteps echoed on the stairs. Vicente got up and made his way to the middle of the foyer, where Janus Hassildor approached. His friend seemed to be doing well, he noted – he wore a fine suit of burgundy velvet with fur around the neck and cuffs, although he looked somewhat more gaunt than he had the last time they'd met. The noble's age was starting to catch up with him, having died over fifty years prior, but his eyes were still sharp, and he quickly found his visitor in the hall. With a nod, he gestured for Vicente to follow him, and returned back up the stairs.

This was usual for Janus, to not speak until they'd reached the complete privacy of his quarters. Vicente wasn't used to having to act with such caution within his own home; in some ways, he felt sorry for his friend. He followed the Count silently through the halls, stone-wrought just like the Sanctuary. The occasional maid shot them a curious look, but anyone who worked here knew better than to ask questions.

The Count's room was opulent but not garish – deep red was a constant color, and wide bookshelves and framed landscapes gave small glimpses into the personality of the man who perpetually kept himself hidden. A grand four-poster bed sat against the far wall; how Janus could stand it, he had no idea, and a low blaze crackled in the fireplace, lending a warmth to the room that neither of its current occupants had any need for.

Castle Skingrad was by no means a normal place, but the whole scenario struck Vicente as sketchy. It was very unlike the Count to leave his castle just to meet with a visitor, and the location... he had not lived for three hundred years by ignoring his instincts, and they were almost never wrong.

He settled down on one of the Count's gaudy armchairs, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar plushness of it. That was _awful_ on his back.

"Er, not to skip the formalities, but Janus?"

The other vampire lifted an eyebrow fractionally. "What is it?"

"This may sound rather foolish, and do forgive me..." Vicente paused. "But did you actually make plans to meet with a guild representative in the sheepfold outside the city in two in the morning?"

0o0o0

Count Hassildor was bloody _weird_.

Never presenting himself to his citizens was strange enough for a Count, Avielle thought. He was about as outgoing as a mudcrab, and only slightly less socially apt. But in order to give her her fetching _book_ back, he wanted to meet her in some random pasture in the dead of night? What did he think he was, a vampire?

Avielle was cold, tired, and only managing to keep her spirits up by replaying a mental image of herself freezing the smugness off of Brocade Guy's face with her staff.

When the three figures finally approached her from under the lean-to, it didn't even occur to her that they were coming from the wrong direction; from the West Weald rather than from Castle Skingrad's vicinity. She supposed the bloke in the middle was the Count, because he was wearing fancy clothes, but she'd honestly been expecting somebody _taller_. And were the two other ones bodyguards? Most Counts and Countesses only stuck with one, but maybe Hassildor was just a paranoid old-

..._whyweretheywearinghoods._

Some primal part of the Breton's mind flew into fierce overdrive upon realizing that the two men flanking the 'Count' were dressed in head to toe in thick black robes, immediately drawing comparisons between the 'now' and that debilitatingly frightening night with the Wood Elf and the shadowy savior.

The more rational part of her mind was not in a happier place, noticing that these robes were _not _the same as that man... but they did bear a mordantly familiar insignia of a grinning, coppery red skull.

And if Count Skingrad was Conceited Brocade Guy, then she was the reincarnation of Tiber Septim.

She swore mentally. Screw the University. Screw the entire fetching Arcane University. Discreetly – or so she hoped – she slid a hand down to her belt, feeling for the hilt of her silver dagger. It felt uncomfortable to hold, and she was aware she was probably doing it wrong, but somehow it made her feel a lot braver just by being there.

And there was always her staff... and... wait. Staff... Brocade Guy...

Suddenly, this seemed like it had the potential for something like... therapy.

"Greetings, Mage. We've been waiting for you-" Mercator began.

"Shit, don't tell me you're one of the necrophiliacs too?"

Mercator blinked. For the first time in his life, somebody had actually gotten in a word over him, and seen through his brilliantly diabolical plans. He quickly ran a hand through his hair, making sure that his bowl cut had not been damaged by the blow to his ego.

...wait. _What_ had she called him?

The three Necromancers exchanged confused glances. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Wasn't the girl supposed to cower in fear as Mercator thrashed her with words like 'impending doom' and 'I misled you'?

Arterion - more widely known as That Altmer Henchman, or Crony #1 to Mercator - finally broke the silence. "...Uh. I've been studying the Dark Arts for a while now. Five, six months? I've raised a lot of zombies. Couple of skeletons too. Once I even got a wraith. But I swear to Mannimarco, I've never done anything like _that_."

The Dunmer nodded frantically, his hood falling down enough to reveal the fact that he was a Dark Elf. "Yeah. That's just creepy. I mean, seriously. Who _does_ that?"

_Ah, the power of diplomacy at work. _Avielle sighed. "That's a load off of my back. I mean, it's good to know you don't," she said sagely. "Hard to tell these days. But actually, with the _who_... have you ever heard of Falanu Hlaalu? That alchemist? You know, the creepy one?"

The Altmer necromancer flinched visibly. "By Mannimarco, _please_ do not mention that name. Ever. There was this one time -"

Mercator cleared his throat. _Amateurs._ This was _so_ not his day, this was _so_ not following along according to plan, and this was _so_ not going in his autobiography once he was the King of Worms.

"Er. Boys. We're here to kill her. Not chat her up. Less talking and more conjuring. You never know when Hassildor might show up, the damn codger is too resourceful for my liking."

"Oh. Right. Uh. Sorry, miss...?"

"Fradaun. Avielle Fradaun," she said, as she lunged forward with her staff.

All right. She was facing a bunch of necrowhatevers. Two of them were bittergreen green, and one of them had a superiority complex the size of Valenwood. It couldn't be too hard, could it?

She wiggled her fingers, casting a wide-range Weakness to Magicka aura around her. All three of them were encased in its invisible bubble. Perfect...

She fired a paralysis spell at the Altmer first – as haughty as High Elves were, they took spells twice as hard as anyone else, and it would only last all the longer for her extra weakness curse. She knew that much from teasing Volanaro back up at her stay in Bruma's guild. Arterion went down like a stone, and the Dunmer then lost all hesitation, charging forward. She got him next, and he quickly followed suit.

Avielle grinned at Mercator. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted to do this."

And the third fell, stiff as a plank, unable to yell, retaliate, or fix his badly affected hair as the fetching _sadistic_ Breton started to pummel him. Avielle was not a skilled user of hand-to-hand fighting, but any punch hurts when you're completely unable to defend yourself and your tormentor is aware of basic male anatomy.

For about a minute, Avielle kept up the game, working off all her accumulated fury onto the poor, undeserving Necromancer, only pausing to renew the paralysis spell on the three whenever they began to move.

"Not so high and mighty now, are you?" she taunted. "Who's the unimpressive one now?" The Imperial struggled against the paralysis, his jaw working furiously as he started to break free of it. She moved to fire another bolt and renew the effect... and...

Nothing. Static. A few green sparks.

Mercator's eyes bulged with realisation. Behind her, one of the other cronies was stirring too, she could see the motion out of the corner of her eyes. It was definitely time to get on with it, cast the crippling Slowing spell and get the hell out of here...

And the damn staff had suddenly gone defunct.

_Crap_. What had Delmar told her? Why wasn't it working? She shook it once, vainly hoping to knock some sense into it. Piece of crap. The staff wasn't even humming in her hands any longer.

_It ran out of charge quickly..._

And she'd been taking her sweet time, just playing around...

Oh, no... She stumbled backwards, fumbling with her dagger. What had Rohssan told her? Think,_ think_...

And the next thing she knew, the cold sting of iron was at her throat.


	5. Second Chance

**Author's Note: I don't own Oblivion. Bawwww.**

**DualKatanas – As ever, thanks for taking the time to help me out! I did realize that the consistent humor in this chapter was rather out of character for this story, but I have a reason for that. If I can remember what it is at that time (if I said it now, it'd be a slight spoiler for the direction this is going), I'll mention it later. As for the Necromancers acting unrealistically... yeah. I maintain that Mercator is a bloody idiot, though.**

**You're right about the staves. :S Again, not something I ever thought about. Maybe it's glue. :u Next time I describe it across her back, I'll mention a strap.**

**I only used parenthesis once D: Also, aren't brackets these things? [ ]**

**Arty – Thanks for the review! Yeah, I know the author's note is long. But I stress that I cannot handle private messaging everyone. :U Not to mention, I barely know how to use this site.**

**I love when Hassy comes to save me :U But I just plain love Hassy. Mind you, I often end up hitting him a lot. He always gets in your way. As for the guild questline and this story... Just don't always expect you know what happens next ;) Like I said, this isn't just the retelling of a character's ascendance to Arch-Champion-Listener-Sheogorath-Fox or something. I'm more using these quests as... framework. I'll say no more.**

**One last thing – I do copy some of Hassildor's dialogue word-for-word here. I'd like to point out that this is **_**not**_** something I usually do. In fact, it's something that I usually hate. But I love the way he tells you off, and it does rather fit with Avielle's character anyways.**

**Now here's the part you actually want to read. :D**

"I am not a 'damn codger'," Hassildor muttered under his breath as Vicente laughed quietly.

"Well, you are getting up there in years... but coming from him, it's practically a compliment," the second vampire noted, while the first motioned for him to be silent.

"...sorry, miss..."

"Fradaun. Avielle Fradaun," she said, as she lunged forward with her staff, settling into a sort of battle stance.

Lounging on one of the ivy-covered rocks near the Gold Road, Vicente nodded in approval. "Avielle," he repeated, tasting the sound of it as he let the name roll off his tongue. "A pretty name. Comes from the old Breton tongue, if I'm not mistaken."

Inwardly, he was wondering why the name seemed so familiar. Not Avielle, necessarily, but the surname. Fradaun... He tossed it around in his mind for a moment, then gave up on it. When you had signed as many death warrants as he had, every name started to blend together. In any case, it most likely meant nothing.

Janus Hassildor was not listening, keeping his ears trained on the scene before him. He'd had his suspicions about Mercator, and Vicente had chanced upon the proverbial nail in the coffin. So ironically enough, Count Skingrad _was_ near the sheepfold at two in the morning, rather concealed by the lush greenery that sprung from Skingrad's fertile soil.

He had not realized just how bad Mercator was at choosing his friends.

The girl had mistaken them for something not-quite-Necromancers, and the two mystery guests had been completely distracted, engaging in what had started to look like a full-blown storytelling before Mercator had nudged them back on track towards the inevitable fight.

There was no doubt that she _was_ the Mages Guild representative he'd been expecting – her first move was to cast some sort of hex. He didn't see anything, but he felt the strange sensation of prickly frost crawl over him; he recognized that as a weakness effect.

"Not a bad spell," Vicente murmured, appreciating the tingle of foreign magicka on his skin as one might sample wine. Even if it was harmful, he could still admire the crafting. "Not terribly powerful, but it's reached us even over here. Fairly impressive range, no?"

"Shall we step in now, or..." Hassildor let the question trail off.

She lifted her staff, and he clapped a hand on the Count's shoulder.

"Let's see how she fares."

The staff was clearly paralysis, judging by the way the first Necromancer dropped as soon as the ball of light collided. It was a smart move, too, to go for the Altmer – High Elves were vulnerable to all sorts of magic. The Dunmer was next, yes... cutting off the flanks, and now she was delivering a one-liner to the steward. A bit amateurish, perhaps, but not everyone could have the patience that three hundred years granted.

He was paralyzed next, and the Breton approached him. Vicente noted the gleam of silver in her belt; any second, she'd reach for it and claim the lives that had reached up to threaten hers...

...What she did next looked like it hurt, but it was most definitely not fatal.

The vampire's involuntary smile faded as she continued on in this vengeful but not necessarily effective course of action.

_She has the killer instinct of a sweetroll._

The Dunmer was starting to break free of the enchantment; Avielle noticed this, and aimed a quick bolt at him. He stiffened again, once more rendered harmless, but the girl didn't seem to snap back into what seemed like common sense. She'd been reminded that her enemies were not completely neutralized, and she just kept on going.

Mercator was next to stir – Vicente had never taken a jab from an active staff in quite that location, but he assumed it hurt, even if vampirism would have made him immune to the muscle-lock that followed.

He waited for her to pull out her dagger and end it, to cast some kind of spell, to... to take the fight _seriously_, damn it! But the little pixie just kept on with her pointless little game that was just begging to blow up in her face.

He'd seen assassins do this sort of thing before, and he'd met his fair share of vampires that preferred to play with their food. There was a difference, though – chiefly, this girl was acting like she was in control of the situation, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that she was _not_.

Vicente's casual grip on his shoulder tightened, and Janus was silently surprised to see his friend's omnipresent composure slipping. It was rather unlike him to care.

"What does she think she's _doing_?" the assassin hissed, teeth gritted.

"Wasting charges on a very fine piece of equipment, setting herself up for a premature death, and sterilizing my wayward steward," the Count replied. "I told you that the Mages Guild is full of fools. They may bandy to each other all day about complex magical theory, but put ten of them in a room and give them a day to light a torch? Odds are, they can't do it." He turned back to the spectacle at hand, half-frustrated by the girl's idiocy and half-amused in spite of himself. Although he'd never admit that anyone could get under his skin, Mercator had made _him_ want to do this sort of thing for a long time.

For some odd reason, though, Vicente – who was by far the more humorous of the two – was not finding the display funny at all. Janus shot him a glance; he doubted the other vampire even knew that his teeth were bared, his fangs extended to their full length. His eyes were locked on the painfully naïve girl, and his whole body was taut, like the string on a bow – ready to pounce.

The inevitable finally happened – the staff gave a sputtering of sparks and refused to continue on. Avielle shook the staff as if expecting it to suddenly spring to life again, wasting precious seconds contemplating the obvious. One by one, her enemies began to break free of her spell; reality finally seemed to sink in, and she backpedaled, searching for her dagger. But that fear was back; Avielle Fradaun seemed completely unable to function when she suddenly found herself in tangible danger.

Janus sighed, conjuring a crackling ball of destruction magic in one hand.

"Put your hood up," he reminded Vicente. "You don't have my good looks."

And then he leapt.

The assassin was a second behind him, having paused only to follow the sound advice. Janus was not nearly as old as him, and could pass as human to the untrained eye, despite vampirism's hawkish effect on his features. Vicente did not have such luck; his sunken cheeks, crimson irises, and barely retractable fangs made sure that even a child could recognize him as a vampire.

Mercator was picking himself up from the ground, snarling quietly to himself. All three necromancers were working severe aches and cramps from their muscles as they struggled to their feet, but only he was grappling with the urge to double over.

Regardless, she was the one helpless now, fumbling for her dagger like a child searching for a toy. And he was _pissed_.

He took a long stride forward and seized her, pressing the dagger to her throat.

"Don't worry," he growled, "I won't make this quick."

There was a flash, a blur, a tongue of green fire.

Avielle watched, unable to make a sound, as the dagger clattered to the grass and blood began to spill from the shallow slice on her neck.

And Mercator joined her in watching when his sword arm, suddenly and inexplicably disconnected from the rest of his body, joined the dagger on the ground with a thump.

For a second, the Imperial and the Breton stared dumbly at the severed limb, eyes wide as saucers, and then the pain finally registered.

And Vicente Valtieri did _not_ like the screaming ones.

Mercator Hosidus opened his mouth, and his head was the next to disconnect, a fine blade of glass slipping though muscles and tendons alike as effortlessly as a knife would pare an apple. He remained upright for a second more – his restraining hand slipped from Avielle's throat, and he swayed in an ironic parody of the headless zombies his cult so frequently summoned. Then the moment was over, and he crumpled like a deflated sack.

Avielle watched as what was left of the man in green brocade fell to the grass, unable to register the signals from her eyes as she made out the figure in the gloom behind him. That jet-black traveling cloak, the hood that masked his features, the green blade – now slick and red with blood – that gleamed brilliantly in the moonlight...

She'd been saved from death. Again. And it was the same man.

She heard the crackle of elemental magic, and turned to see that they were not alone – another man, this one _not_ hooded and instead dressed in burgundy nobles' clothes, was remedying the issue of the other two foes, wielding a mixture of fire and lightning that she'd never seen before. Probably his own spell – even at a glance, the man looked important enough to create them.

But even so, he was not the one that held her attention.

This time, the robed man did not leave – he simply stood there, casually withdrawing a cloth from somewhere in his cloak to clean his sword with. They were close enough to touch... Avielle reached for his hood impulsively, and he did look up, leaning backwards as smoothly as a swaying reed. Her hand grasped only empty air, and she stared at the black fabric... all she could make out was a narrow, chiseled chin. A pale hand appeared from the folds of the robe, his pianist's fingers as white as the stars above. His robe was much smoother than those of the necromancers, by the way the wan light played off of them – the sheen was silky rather than coarse. She watched, strangely mesmerized, as the hand drew the hood fully down again, erasing even the point of his chin from view. Only then did he speak, and her memories hadn't done his voice justice. The High Rock cadence sounded purely lyrical on his tongue, a light tenor.

"You're a curious one, aren't you?"

Somehow, she found her voice. "I just want to know who you are," she said evenly.

He laughed. It was music.

"Not the person you came here to talk to," he said, making a sweeping gesture towards Count Hassildor, who stood watching them a few yards away. "Janus, I'll take my leave."

The faint smile that toyed with the Count's lips was only visible to one who knew him well. "So you know her? That explains a good deal."

"Hardly," Vicente replied. "Glarthir thought she was a spy of some sort and attacked her. I took offense."

"Hm," Hassildor mused. "I'm surprised you didn't mention that earlier. Well, safe travels. I have some business to handle here."

"As I can see." The assassin was much more eager to part than he let on; recognition was _not_ a good thing in his line of work, and this Avielle Fradaun was expressing far more interest in his person than he was comfortable with. "Good luck, and good night."

Avielle's jaw nearly dropped. He was leaving, just like that. Again.

As he passed by her, he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"And please, do take better care of your life."

Within moments, he was swallowed up by the night.

No – not swallowed up by it. It was more like he was _one_ with it; the darkness embraced him as a part of itself. Everything about him was veiled up in its shroud of secrets.

A furious blush made its was up her cheek as his words finally registered, but before she could reply to the night, another voice spoke, this one clipped.

"That was foolish, mage."

Avielle opened her mouth to retort, quickly silencing the remark in her throat as she realized that she was finally face-to-face with the real Count Skingrad. She'd expected a small, wizened man, or a tall and bearded warlock as some rumors whispered – Janus Hassildor was neither of these. He'd ruled Skingrad for seventy years, as records went, but the man before her looked no older than forty or fifty. Harsh, that was the best way to describe his features; the planes of his face were all sharply angled, dark circles stretched under his eyes, and he had a sunken look about him, like a man who had lost a lot of weight in a short period of time. But he did not strike her as weak – he seemed to radiate authority and power. And alertness – his eyes were unnerving her, and not just because they were so oddly penetrating – it took her almost a second to realize it was because they were like nothing else she'd ever seen. The irises were startlingly scarlet amongst the whites, and there was no way he was a Dunmer... Wheels began to turn in the back of her head.

"What possessed you to think I would arrange a meeting here, of all places?"

"Your corpse-hugging steward, that's what," she said, second-guessing her inappropriate words a second too late. And then, on an afterthought, "You _are_ Hassildor, right?"

"That's _Count_ Hassildor to you, mage. Humbly at your service. I do believe a 'thank you' is in order at this point."

"Who was that friend of yours, then?" Avielle skipped over the 'thank you' with about as much tact as a land dreugh.

Count Hassildor was in no mood to divulge his friend's secrets. "A man who would much rather we talked about the task at hand than himself."

As he continued to speak, she caught the glimpse of light off canine teeth that were just a modicum too long and acute to be human, and the gears turning in her mage's mind clicked into place.

_Vampire._

The next thoughts that went through her brain were entirely incoherent. Completely forgetting that the staff was out of charge and therefore no more useful than a carved switch, she took a step back, overbalancing slightly as she aimed it at the expressionless Count.

"Don't come any closer, you monster!"

She wasn't sure what she was expecting next; the Count to lunge at her and bite her neck, maybe. Perhaps an evil laugh as he twirled his fingers in a particularly menacing fashion. She was not expecting the bitterly amused smile that tugged at his thin lips.

"I don't know if you've ever heard, girl, but vampires are immune to paralysis."

He took a step forward, which she matched in the same direction, but his stride was wider than hers. He took the end of her staff, and slowly but firmly guided it downward until it was pointing uselessly at the grass. The Breton looked up at him, her face white as chalk.

_This_ was why he hated mages.

"I'm going to assume your Council did not bother to tell you about who they sent you to spy upon?" That same cynical humor was in his voice; somehow, it made him seem slightly more human. She was beginning to realize she'd overreacted, and to a Count, no less... but this was just so damned dysfunctional. The hell, he really _was_ a vampire, even if he wasn't acting at all like she'd been led to believe.

"No, the fetchers... and wait, what? I only came here to get back a book."

"Is that so?" The sardonic grin grew by another fraction. "Perhaps your Council has been less honest with you than I initially realized. Do you really believe they sent you here for a book? No, they sent you here to spy on me, although I cannot be sure _how_ they intended you to do so without actually telling you to look for. Regardless, they want information on myself and what is going on here, and they shall have it."

Raminus Polus climbed yet another rank up Avielle's hate list. "Why would they want to spy on you? Well, besides the fact that, well..." She gestured helplessly. "You know."

"Vampirism?" He would have snorted, had he allowed himself such undignified expressions. At least she'd gotten over it fairly quickly, and she didn't look like she was trying to turn him into a case study from afar. "It's a part of it. They're prejudiced. Personally, I have a prejudice against fools who march around the Arcane University with their faces permanently glued in their spellbooks, handing off duties as simple as lacing up their shoes to their lackeys."

Which somewhat included Avielle, but even so, the remark made the Breton feel a sudden kinship with Janus Hassildor.

"The main reason they've turned their sights on me again is because they've become aware of the growing presence of the Necromancers' Cult in Cyrodiil, and they seem to think that I have dealings with them. Perhaps you can guess by now that I do not. I was aware of Mercator Hosidus and his alliance with them, but I was unwilling to deal with him for fear of driving any other of his cult in the area underground."

She was irritated at how she'd been used as bait, but after the Guild had tossed her around like a pawn, being used as one by Skingrad's nobility was taken with more resignation. At least Hassildor had stepped in to look after her. "How did you know it was him, anyways?"

"Occam's razor. He was the newest addition to my staff, and the one who took the greatest number of unexplained absences." The Count pinched the bridge of his nose. "Politics is the game of the elite, mage. I have my sources, my connections to otherwise closed networks of information. And the fact that I possess these connections means _nothing_ about my alliances. Being aware of your guild's old archenemy hardly means I've taken up their side." His tone grew more stern. "I've not thrown in with the Necromancers, and would never do so. You can tell your Council that the next time they want something from me, they can come and get it themselves. They _don't_ send somebody under false pretenses."

Avielle's sudden and unexpected grin prompted the vampire to raise one of his thin brows a fraction.

"Yes, sir."

Now _that_ was an order she could finally agree to. Telling Raminus off?

Count her _in_.


	6. Enigmas

**Author's Note: I don't own Oblivion, blargh**

**A great big thank you to everyone who reviewed :D You're the reason I'm not doing my English essay. Cheers!**

**Arty – I loved the sweetroll line too :B Also, with chapter length... when I have long chapters, I tend to write more slowly overall, and not just relatively speaking. I write less when the finish line is less visible, you could say. Also, my author's notes are -not- 1/3 of my word count. :( I don't have a problem with Traven, but Raminus always annoys me. I console him to make him a midget to appease my raeg – try clicking on him and type 'setscale 0.1'.**

**DualKatanas – Ironically, on the other fanfiction site, I did use description to add more words, and people there would tell me off for it, saying I was being too flowery. I guess this is just the way I write. When I'm done with the story, or out of inspiration for the next chapters, you can expect me to constantly go back and revise the old ones. Oh, and { }**

**Lady Reva – Yay, a new reviewer! I hope you'll like the direction I do take this, because I **_**promise**_** it's not going to be what anyone expects when I get to the really good part.**

**NoSoundComes – I'm afraid my fast streak was interrupted D: I've been scrambling to get my work done these part few days, but hopefully the weekend will allow me some good, solid writing time. I totally agree with you on Hassildor and vampirism, and as for the scene and not understanding, I never actually wrote that – when I'm revising, I'll probably add that scene. For now, I didn't deem it strictly necessary.**

"Count Hassildor would like me to inform you that I am not the only person who disapproves of your policy of lying to newbies and sending them out into hordes of necrophiliacs unawares."

Raminus Polus started to correct her flawed terminology, and then what she'd said sunk in.

"You were attacked by Necromancers?"

Avielle shot him a pathetic stare. "No, they invited me out for tea with the Count. I forgot to bring back your copy of A Less Rude Song that may or may not have actually existed,by the way. What do you _think_ happened? A group of them ambushed me and would have made me into one of their pet zombies if Janus Hassildor-" _and the other one_, "- hadn't fried them. By the way, I think that proves he's _not_ working with them, fangs and all. In case you were wondering that, and that was actually the reason for you sending me off."

The Imperial processed this. "So you're aware of the Count's... condition?" he finally said, rather evasively.

Avielle realized that she definitely needed to recharge her staff as soon as possible. Forget about self-protection, she just wanted to make this pompous aristocrat kiss the floor.

"Yes, and I fail to see why you didn't consider it important enough to tell me about," the girl snapped. "Of course, you didn't even mention that I was supposed to spy on him, which sort of made the entire mission doomed to screw up right from the start."

"I'm sorry," Raminus placated. "You were never supposed to be in any danger, and it was wrong of us to use you like that regardless. But you must understand, we didn't have much of a choice in the matter. Our relationship with Count Skingrad is tenuous at best -"

"If this is your typical policy towards him, I'm not surprised," Avielle cut him off. "If you keep sending people to get books from him that he never borrowed, he's going to think you're trying to annex his personal library. Blather on to somebody else about how important this was, how it's vital to the guild, et cetera, okay? I'd like to get started on _my_ work now, after all these delays, because I actually do have other things to do besides play your errand girl. Oh, and by the way, the Count said that the next time you wanted something from him, get it _yourself_. I approve."

She stormed out, leaving Raminus want to both cry out in frustration at this hard-headed Journeyman and sigh with relief at having narrowly avoided telling her that Irlav Jarrol was looking for somebody to help with his latest project.

Avielle was also frustrated and relieved. Relieved because she now had time to access the University's impressive facilities for more than five seconds, and frustrated for a much deeper reason.

She was walking in the land of her mother's dreams, her paradise, the final destination transferred from a dead woman's dreams to her own... but the happiness she'd expected was nowhere to be found. She had worked to reach the top for so many years... maybe the way it had always appeared as a pinnacle to her, a respite from all the problems in the guild's lower tiers, had left her expectations overlarge. But this reasoning didn't make her any happier about it.

Even so, the University seemed like the only possibility, the only way to complete the work that her mother had started.

It was only after her funeral that Avielle had learned the _why_ behind her mother's long nights in the basement, punctuated by flashes of red and orange lights that would flare from beneath the door... the tests that backfired so frequently she'd often emerge from that metaphorical cave burned and bleeding...

She leaned against the stone, letting the sunshine soak into her body. Whenever she had asked her about the experiments, her mother would always get a faraway, even rueful look. "It's a secret," she'd tell young Avielle, and send her off with a kiss. "It'll be over someday, sweetie. Don't worry about it."

But Casselia Fradaun had not lived long enough to see that end, and her spirit seemed to cry out to her daughter, begging her to give closure to the driving force of the final sixteen years of her life.

And when Avielle had learned the _reason_, she had been only too happy to oblige.

0o0o0

Two days later, dangerously close to daybreak, Vicente made it back to Cheydinhal.

So close was the sun to the horizon that he didn't even bother with the well, entering the abandoned house by door like a new Murderer or a foolish beggar simply because he was _closer_. He sighed inwardly with relief as the door creaked shut behind him, a primal feeling of safety lending him a momentary triumph as he slid from dawn back into the shadows. He'd been caught in the sun a few times, the most recent of which was half a century ago, and if he never felt it again, it would be too soon – even an instant in the weakest light was as excruciating as bathing in molten metal.

When safe from its proximity, however, inability to stand the sun seemed like a small price to pay for vampirism's upsides. Some of his kind lamented their inability to bask in the natural warmth, but while Vicente did suffer from the occasional wistful pang, he had taught himself to love the glory of the night rather than long after the day. There was much more beauty to be found in moonlight than pain, after all.

He waited for a minute, listening for the sounds of anyone who might have seen him enter the house. When he was certain that he had not been followed, he made his way into the basement, treading carefully over the splinters and skulls that welcomed assassins home.

Vicente ran a languid hand over the door's smooth ebony; recognizing him as one of the Night Mother's children, it slid open without protest. Six in the morning was not a lively hour in the Sanctuary, and the foyer was empty; even Teinaava's omnipresence near the small mahogany bookshelf was absent. The onset of day was even leaving _him_ suddenly tired, although for purely different reasons, but he had to report back in before anything else.

He glided into Ocheeva's room, where the Argonian slept. Her armor was still on in her rest, but loosened for comfort, and the collar that normally covered her neck folded back down to reveal glittering jade scales, bobbing up and down with the rhythm of life that pulsed beneath...

Suddenly, there was nothing else; no Sanctuary, no wooden bed frame or pillows or torches. The familiar fog was swirling in his head, making her throbbing jugular the center of his universe, the only relevant thing to be found. He could feel the faint sting of venom beginning to well up in his mouth. Vicente swallowed and took a step back, running his tongue over his fully extended teeth. Yes, it had been far too long since he'd fed... He took a deep breath through his mouth, tasting the familiar scents of everything _else_ around him, as he resorted to when he felt his instincts rebelling against his will. He was a vampire, perhaps, but... how had Janus phrased it? He refused to be an animal.

Finally, the haze clouding his mind receded, and his fangs retracted perhaps a centimeter – as far back as they could go at his age. He knew he was perfectly welcome to his family's blood whenever he pleased, but he would not demean them so much by using them as sustenance.

He gently tweaked the Argonian's ear fin; having been raised as a Shadowscale, Ocheeva and her brother would awaken to the lightest stimuli. He was not disappointed; she jolted upright, grabbing the dagger – not fumbling for it like a certain Breton girl who had been much more awake – in her belt before realizing who had prodded her. Some people were heavy sleepers, but assassins were not, and Argonians in warm climates were even less so. She allowed herself five seconds to get her bearings, and then she was as awake as she ever was.

"Greetings, Brother. It's good to see you back. You do not have to pinch so hard, by the way."

"My apologies." What was gentle to the vampire could be anything from light to bone-shattering to anyone else, but he usually did a good job of keeping to the former. "Did anything occur while I was gone?"

"Well, yes." Ocheeva settled back down into her pillow. "Very much so, in fact. We have a new Brother. He just arrived here yesterday."

The vampire clapped his hands together. "Wonderful! It is a gift to see our Family grow once more. Still, I cannot help but wonder why Lucien did not inform us of this beforehand. It's simply not like him."

"I disagree," the Argonian replied. "It's unexpected, and therefore _definitely_ Lucien. He probably had his reasons, anyways. Perhaps he was simply too busy. The life of a Speaker is not a carefree one, that is to be sure."

"Indeed." Having achieved that rank before stepping down to a more quiet life, Vicente knew firsthand what it meant to be a Speaker of the Black Hand. "What of this new Brother, though? Is he here at the moment?"

"Yes, although he's sleeping. I decided I would wait and let you give him a contract, to allow him the chance to get used to working with you."

Vicente frowned. "I wish I'd known to expect him. If I had, I wouldn't have left."

_And that Avielle Fradaun would have died_, commented a nagging voice in the back of his head. He had no idea why, but the notion bothered him. Much more than it had any right to, anyway. He cast it out of his mind – he had other things that needed considering, and he was only just beginning to realize that he was once again on the way to breaking the Brotherhood's largest unwritten guideline. This time, with somebody who was getting embroiled in such a momentous string of events that he might well be contracted to kill her.

But no... he didn't actually _care_ about her, did he? He had intervened the first time for the hell of it, and the second because Janus had needed to talk to her alive. That was all, wasn't it? He was reading too deeply into this... it was fine to be cautious, but surely finding out about her being marked for death would mean nothing to him if Sithis willed it. He had no logical reason to have any ties with her; they had nothing in common, they'd not shared even ten sentences with each other, and she was _not_ the type to be inducted into his world.

But still, there was something there. Something he couldn't quite place his finger upon... something he didn't like.

All of this, he managed to process while still attentively listening to Ocheeva's speech. Such was the flexibility of a civilized vampire's mind.

The Argonian shrugged. "It does not cause us any problems. In any case, Brother, I suggest you go get some sleep. You have circles under your eyes again."

While the vampire was tired, the circles stemmed from a completely different problem; one that he was in no position to remedy while the sun shone. "As much as I'd love to, I'm sure you'd rather I dealt with the paperwork before it gets any more severe."

"Well," Ocheeva sighed, "if the dead will not sleep, at least kindly allow the living their rest. Good night, Brother."

"It's actually morning." he noted dryly. "Isn't that when you're supposed to be up and about?"

"Hnnh."

He smiled as she rolled over, her breathing already slipping back into the regular pattern of sleep. Mortals and their need for instant gratification to their bodily complaints... Ocheeva may have been the mistress of the Sanctuary, but he often felt like a father figure, a patriarch watching over a group of children. He supposed this was partly because of his age and partly because they all shared vulnerabilities he did not. If he tried hard enough, he could sometimes dredge up memories of his ephemeral life and the sensations that had accompanied it, but they always seemed strange and incongruous to him. As a vampire, everything was optional. Ignoring needs could be done indefinitely, so long as you could withstand growing torment the longer you let those desires go unchecked. As tired and thirsty as he was, he could go on without sleep or blood for an eternity and still _exist_, albeit miserably.

He headed down the stairs to his quarters and eyed his desk critically. On it slouched a messy pile of parchment that had most definitely not been there when he'd left for Skingrad.

The vampire sighed, casting his slab a longing glance and picking up his quill instead.

He had his responsibilities, and they always came before his whims.

0o0o0

The expected knock came to his doors perhaps three hours later.

The new Brother was an Imperial who looked more like an Arena poster boy than a cold-blooded assassin. Somewhere between seventeen and twenty, the boy seemed... insouciant; there was a recklessness, an arrogance in the way he carried himself, maintained even in a den full of assassins. His new black leather armor contrasted sharply and rather ridiculously with the curly blonde hair that fell past his shoulders as well as his tanned skin; it also served to emphasize his impressive musculature with its tight-fitting design. The color of his eyes was a light brown, dark gold in the torchlight. He had a roguish air to him, more bandit than Brotherhood, but Vicente knew better than to trust first impressions.

His respect for him increased as the Imperial took in his skeletal features without a trace of the usual shock or fear that Vicente inspired. He extended a hand, which the vampire shook warmly.

"Hey there, Brother. I'm Ray. Ravolian Markaius, really, but that's a mouthful."

He definitely talked like a rogue, too, but there was a certain charisma to him. Hopefully his nonchalance wouldn't be so present when he was on the job.

"It's so good to finally meet you. Vicente Valtieri, at your service."

The Murderer peered at him more closely, as if affirming something. "I get to work with a vampire? This is _awesome_."

Charismatic _and_ tactless, then. An interesting combination, to say the least. But tactlessness was better than fear – it was difficult to train people who were terrified of you, and in his current ravenous state, he was not in the mood to stay in a closed, confined space and placate somebody whose heart was pounding like a rabbit's. He smiled widely, displaying canines a Daedroth would have been proud of. "I am glad that you see it so. For the moment, however, I am simply in charge of assigning you your contracts. Speaking of, I have one ready if you've finished settling in."

Ray's Oblivion-may-care grin now looked distinctly like that of a Cheshire cat. "You know, when that Lachance guy told me I could actually get paid to kill people, it sounded too good to be true."

Vicente's character judgment whirled, trying to pin down the rookie. He was _definitely_ not one of the twitchy, jumpy kinds that joined the Brotherhood out of terror and inability to turn back time rather than love of killing - those who had murdered in the heat of anger, passion, or other fleeting whims, and found their lives as they knew them ruined. While a few things about Ravolian seemed a bit strange, and he did strike the vampire as kill-happy, he didn't appear psychotic... and he seemed to be fine with the undead, which was a nice touch in Vicente's book.

"How did Lucien stumble upon you, by the way?" he asked casually.

Ray shrugged. "Got drunk late at night, rowdy, Imperial Legion had a problem with it. You know how it is."

Vicente did not know how it was, being unable to enter a bar in the first place without causing an uproar, but he let the new Brother go on. "And you killed a guard?" he guessed. It wasn't a rare story in the Brotherhood, and he seemed like the type...

"Well, yeah, but I was _drunk_. Doesn't count. Anyway, they chucked me in prison for it, and that's when the good stuff happens."

He leaned forward. "I've been in a few jails, but I have to say, the way they try to psyche you out in the I-C is way out there. They were trying to pull some serious mind games on me or something. A bunch of guards brought this crazy guy into my cell and told me to stay put, then unleashed the head case on me. And when I say crazy, I mean _crazy_ crazy. He was wearing a bloody _dress_. Anyway, the guards opened up an escape route to torture me some more – probably thought I couldn't get out unarmed with the three of them blocking it and a nutjob all over me. The old geezer had me in an iron grip, ranting about how he'd 'seen me in his dreams' or whatever. Gramps was in my way, so I asked him nicely to shove off. Guy just tried to give me a damn necklace, so I cracked his neck and skedaddled. Guards tried to chase me, but them these _other_ head cases in pink popped out of nowhere and held them up. I know, didn't make sense to me either. If they cared so much about the old guy, well, they were seriously just asking for him to get killed if they used him to freak out prisoners like that. There wasn't any time to think about it, so I just got the hell out of there and laid low for a while, and then Lachance showed up. Great, isn't it?"

Vicente had been matching up this tale with a more sketchy and fragmented network of events he knew of, and what he figured out made him suddenly long for a relaxing soak in the hot springs.

Lucien had recruited the bloke who'd killed the _Emperor_. And that bloke was _not _a brilliant and calculating assassin, but a naïve child.

Yeah, just _great_.


	7. Revelations

**Author's Note: I OWN OBLIVIO - shot for blatant lie and copyright infringement***

**Thanks so much for reviewing, seeing new reviews on my story makes me grin from ear to ear every time. **

**Arty – **_**Lolwhat? Dude, he was just this crazy guy that was, like, **_**totally**_** in my way. And was wearing a dress.**_** Kudos if you can guess the character I based his appearance off of, although his demeanor is totally mine. :D And Avielle's next confrontation with Raminus will not be pretty, I promise you. :P I'm not sure if it involves paralysis, though, because I hope to make it a more serious scene.**

**NoSoundComes – I'm not really trying to be fast, it's just that I've been aaarrrghbombarded with stuff to do lately. Hopefully by Thanksgiving break it'll cool down and give me some time to write. I'm not sure what you mean by ellipses – please elaborate? Because I do always want to get better :B Don't we all?**

**Lady Reva – Sometimes I do that, actually. Or I cast the script effect 'pants on fire' on the guy and watch him run around in circles like an idiot.**

**DualKatanas – Well, he was being gentle, or so he thought. :P As for Ray killing the Emperor – there are so many scenes in the tutorial where there are no Blades between you and him, and the guy is close enough for you to kill him at least twenty different ways.**

**Carlotta – Eep, another new reviewer! And I love Janus and Vicente =D If you're looking for another story that has them as friends, L'Ankou's stories have that. Plus, they're amazingly written. Anyway, you asked for a new part, and now you shall have one.**

**Hoo boy, long chapter. **

Not all of the Arcane University's magisters had gotten where they were out of pluck, determination, or raw talent. Had Avielle been less serious about following her mother's will, or come from richer stock, she might have made it into Cyrodiil's finest mage hall immediately by bribing the right people rather than struggling to complete small jobs all over the province. It was a hefty sum, and a risky thing to do, but more than one mage in the University had that guilty conscience.

However, one such Mage Apprentice had gotten in by paying money that wasn't hers. She'd been loaned some drakes from people who really didn't like to be crossed, and a year had passed without her even contacting them. Even more unforgivably, a look into her private life had yielded the fact that she didn't even have enough Septims to pay off her debt. In fact, the woman didn't even have enough money to take them out for lunch at the Feed Bag.

After some dealings of a more _shady_ sort, a contract had been arranged, and it was now Ravolian Markaius's job to make the apprentice pay with the next best thing; her life.

And so fate found Vicente Valtieri at the Arcane University that night.

He'd been assigned to watch the new Brother complete his first contract. Usually, this sort of thing fell to Telaendril or Lucien, when they were present, but this contract was at the University, and Ray was not supposed to know that he had a tail. The Cheydinhal Sanctuary only had one key to the University's gates left, having lost the other two on failed assignments. Vicente had been drafted for this simply because he did not need a key to the Arcane University in order to get in.

Every wall had its handholds.

The slapdash stone patterning had been simple enough to navigate; he'd used his Embrace of Shadows to prevent anyone from spotting his ascent and then climbed up the barrier, all the while enjoying the cool night breeze that caressed his face. He had been out of Cheydinhal more times in the past few days than he had in the past five years not counting them, and he was thoroughly content with the change of pace.

He now stood on top of the Mages Quarters building, on the balcony; anyone glancing up at his silhouette would think nothing of it. He was just another Apprentice stargazing for their astronomy charts, an alchemist getting a breath of fresh air to escape a pungent brew in the works. Hiding in plain sight. Nobody would join him there, either; Locking magic was very rare in Cyrodiil, but he'd picked it up in his days in Morrowind, and the resulting seal on the door behind him was entirely impervious to lockpicks and would take a very skilled mage to undo it by magical means.

Ravolian was setting himself up to get killed, he noted wryly as he watched the Murderer making his way across the moonlight stone path around the main tower. He was making no attempts to either hide or blend in; for the love of Sithis, he was wearing his new armor! He simply strolled through as if he owned the place...

...and while he himself probably didn't know the reasons behind his own devilish luck, Vicente realised that it was the boy's cockiness, his utter _certainty_, that prevented anyone from marking him out as an impostor. Ray was an imbecile, perhaps, but that damned charismatic element was at work again; he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Somehow, he even looked like he belonged where he was completely, despite his lack of mages' robes and and his probable lack of magicka entirely.

Of course, if the University was foolish enough to believe anyone with a key was a mage, then maybe Ray wouldn't last so long after all. There would be many other contracts with tighter security, and if the boy tried to play anything like this, he'd find himself at the gallows before he could drawl, "What are you doing, _maaan_?"

Ray had reached the Mages' Quarters; Vicente focused on his innate abilities to sense life and marked out his silouette among the other mages flitting around the building. He ran his tongue over his teeth. _Life_... it was enough to make him drool, but it was not what he'd come here for. He'd have to wait until Ray had made his escape before he could put his thirst to rest. And the University was not a good place to hunt, seeing as there was nary a time when everyone in the complex was asleep, and many of them could see through walls and chameleon spells. There was a guard posted at the entrance to the building, but judging by the way he slouched against the wall, he was sleeping on the job. A pity for him, and a godsend for the idiotic Murderer.

Ray had been told that the death-marked Apprentice quartered on the third room on the left on the base floor; he made his way towards that door. Vicente had chosen the balcony's vantage point because it was directly below him. The glowing figure inside was sprawled out horizontally – asleep, which was always ideal for a quick and quiet kill. The assassin's luminescence slipped inside the room, making no move to shut the door that was still likely open behind him.

Vicente watched as his silhouette reached out a glowing purple finger and prodded the sleeping figure multiple times.

He was waking her up? Vicente clapped a palm to his forehead. Bloody idiot.

Was he _trying_ to get caught? His stupidity was transcending believable; perhaps he was some kind of spy that had been sent to expose the Brotherhood or something.

The girl seemed to stir, stretching and then freezing as she realized that there was somebody in her room. Vicente focused his life detection as strongly as he could; Ray's jaw was moving, likely delivering some self-gratifying one-liner to the doomed mage.

Ray then drew his sword, which Vicente could see; as it was lifted, the enchantment on it sprang to life. The vampire could pick up oscillations of energy besides life; they were fainter, but he could still taste the crackle of illusion magic. He brought it down in a fine slash; the girl opened her mouth to scream, but Vicente heard nothing, despite his proximity.

So it was a Silencing blade... perhaps the boy had a modicum of sense after all.

Had the vampire not been paying such close attention to his Brother, focusing his life detection solely on him and his target, he might have seen the glow of somebody else lurking just outside the room.

0o0o0

Avielle Fradaun watched soundlessly as the Imperial in black leather armor diced one of her fellow Apprentices.

She'd ran into the Mages Quarters for one reason; she'd spotted _him_ again.

Nobody else would have paid him a second glance. Even she wouldn't have, had his appearance not been burned into her subconsious. That tall figure, dressed from head to toe in silky black robes... perhaps she was deluding herself, but she was positive it was her twice-savior.

He was driving her mad. What was he doing here? Who _was_ he? She'd not wasted a second in going after him, knowing that he could slip away at any given second.

She had paused, however, because somebody had left their door open. She'd made to close it, only to see somebody _else_ in black gutting an unarmed girl with a sword, sporting armor with a black handprint on one pauldron that immediately commanded her attention.

Dark Brotherhood.

Her throat clenched, bile rose in her throat, and she bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood.

It was not fear, no, as anyone else might have felt if they'd witnessed a murder by the infamous shadows. Nor did she feel outrage at another faceless innocent losing their life, as she would have in any other circumstance besides this one.

All Avielle could register was a burning hatred, so strong that she forgot momentarily about the reason why she'd entered the Mages' Quarters to begin with.

But now it all clicked into place.

Black robes, perpetual secrecy, that he was _here_ tonight... he was one of the fetchers.

She'd been saved by the same bastards who'd killed her father.

The realization was as paralyzing as a strike from her staff. It didn't make sense; she felt both furious and numb, burning up and freezing cold. She felt like she'd been stricken with one of the spells her mother had created, the spells that crafted their unique, exquisite tortures that had been planned to be unleashed upon the murderers..

The assassin started to turn around, and Avielle acted instinctively; she threw herself to the side towards the staircase, out of his direct line of sight. Her heart pounded painfully as he emerged from the room, a disgustingly amused smile on his face, and turned towards the door without so much as a glance to see if he was clear. The arrogant fool... but they were all arrogant, all monsters, with no regard for the lives they stole or the lives that were ruined in the wake.

But she had to deal with the _now_, and there were two clear options that presented themselves to her.

To scream for the guards, or to get some answers?

Avielle scrambled up the stairs.

To hell with authority. They'd never gotten her anywhere, never tracked down the reason why she'd never known a father. They'd never given her any reason to sleep more soundly at night. And their inaction was the reason why her mother had taken her revenge into her own hands, the reason why she was exiled from her beloved Guild and spent sixteen years trying to harness magicka that ended up leaving her a charred corpse. It was too late to save the girl, she knew, and that hooded man... she had to be _sure_.

Assassins didn't save people, they killed people. But then, why...?

She fumbled with the door, palms sweating, and swore under her breath. It was locked, no, more than locked. There was no telltale padlock, and her Breton sensitivity could feel the magic humming over the door; it was no ordinary seal. Bastard knew how to cover his tracks, that was for sure.

But her mother's years of toying with magic unknown and forbidden had not left her daughter without a legacy. Avielle pressed her splayed hands to the wood of the door, unleashing a torrent of energy into the weathered wood. The door trembled, caught between the pulls of two opposite magical forces, until finally giving way to one. She stumbled as the rush of energy subsided, almost losing her balance; his spell had been powerful indeed to require that much energy to undo. Dizzily, she watched as the door swung open, almost in slow motion.

And there he was, his back to her.

0o0o0

Vicente didn't think. Couldn't think. There was no understanding that somebody had destroyed his unpickable lock, no realization that Avielle Fradaun had chanced upon him for a third time. The only thing that _mattered_ was a frantically beating heart, streams of ambrosia thrumming _right behind him_.

It was not Vicente Valtieri that whirled around and leapt for the girl's neck, but the feral animal that lurked behind a human's face.

0o0o0

Avielle registered only a blur as the man whirled around, his cloak flying up with the speed at which he moved. _Something_ crashed into her with enough force to snap her ribs, driving her to the balcony's floor. Fingers as thin and hard as bones held her down, forcing her head back; everything had happened so fast that she couldn't find her voice to cry out, and the impact of her skull hitting the balcony's floor left her seeing only stars.

There was a sharp stab of pain at her throat, and then a spiral downwards into blissful darkness.

0o0o0

The last sparks of white magic dissipated into the air, and he leaned back, propping himself up on one shoulder. Restoration magic was an aptitude every Breton had, but the energies of life and healing did not flow so easily through the undead, and Vicente's proficiency in it was not at the same level as his other skills. He preferred not to use it; it felt wrong, somehow, contemptuous of him, triggering some primal nervousness in the recesses of his mind. It was the energy that sustained life, it was as simple as that; he was animated by something completely opposite.

He closed his eyes, pondering what had just transpired.

He'd completely lost himself. Pent-up hunger had rendered him little more than a beast; he'd been too intent on keeping watch on his Brother's escape outdoors to notice the obvious-in-retrospect footsteps behind him, the buzzing heat applied to the door as magic had melted what locks could not pick. He'd been too focused to pay a modicum of attention to his ravening, which had grown to a degree that was uncontrollable if not kept on a tight leash. And he'd lost control. A whiff of blood nearby – not even exposed, just proximity to life – and he had become the mindless predator, breaking her as easily as thin glass. She'd been halfway drained before he'd realized what he was doing and jerked back to his senses.

Ray had already escaped, so Vicente had made a snap decision, the closest he ever came to panicking. He'd picked up the limp form and carried her to a safer place – safer for him, at least, because he most definitely did not want to spend another moment in the Arcane University. She was pathetically light to him; he could scale walls and sprint as fast as he could while keeping her as undamaged as the most delicate of cargo. Stopping at the deserted shoreline of Lake Rumare, he'd healed her broken bones, cast a precautionary Cure Disease spell on her, and restored some of her stamina. Then he'd simply waited, brooding, watching the moon waver on the black waters as he contemplated what he'd done and waited for her to wake.

But the mortifying part was that he _cared_. Had this happened among his Family, yes, he would have felt this concern for endangering their welfare. They were his Brothers and Sisters; they were one in the eyes of Sithis. But this girl... why? _Why_ did it matter to him whether she, an insignificant bystander, lived or died?

If anything, it would be _easier_ if she were to die now; she may or may not have witnessed Ray's murder, but she had definitely seen Vicente for what he was, and he was almost positive she would talk. They always did.

Why was he doing his utmost to keep her alive?

Why did he feel guilty when he looked down upon her pale form and became conscious of her blood running through his veins, putting her in pain in order to stave off his own?

This was how humans were supposed to feel, how mortals were supposed to feel; how he might have felt three hundred years years ago when he first was turned. Mortal logic was not something you could afford when you were a vampire; if you neither rationalized things to yourself nor became entirely apathetic, the weight of your own actions would eventually drive you mad. As he seldom killed any of his victims outside of contracts, and had convinced himself of the insignificance of those he did claim by accident, Vicente had not suffered issues with culpability in centuries; even less so after he'd joined the Brotherhood. He was a vampire and an assassin. He didn't give a damn about the lives of anyone outside of one small circle.

He shouldn't give a damn about the lives of anyone outside. He couldn't. Because it had the potential to destroy him.

So who did she think she was, to make him feel alive again?

That was hardly a good thing, because he was _not_ alive. He was dead. And most living moral standards carried into the unlife inevitably were shredded into thousands of pieces and carried away on the wind.

It wasn't _love_, he was fairly certain of that. He'd loved before; granted, he'd been human at the time, but this was hardly comparable to how he'd felt then. She was pretty, but she wasn't _beautiful_, and there was no deep connection of spirit or mutual understanding – far from it, really – that could have created any illusion of closeness between them. If anything, it was a sort of possessiveness he felt towards her; that Avielle Fradaun's life both belonged to him and was in his safekeeping. She was both fiery and timorous, poking her head into things that often bit back at her. She was intriguing and infuriating, insightful and idiotic...

In the end, it didn't matter _what_ he felt. The fact that he felt at all was the disaster.

At last, the girl began to stir. Briefly, he comtemplated sliding his hood back up, but quickly dismissed the notion. There was no point. And after what he'd done to her, he supposed that she deserved that much of the truth. He was a gentleman, after all.

Avielle groaned, rubbing her eyes as she struggled to a kneeling position. This had not been the most comfortable sleep she'd had... but was it even sleep? She was lying on something grainy, something that gave as she moved, and she was the antithesis of a well-rested person. Her neck stung, and her entire body ached as if with a fever. And there was something deeper, something that bespoke complete and utter fatigue.

"I see you're finally awake," came the voice she'd come to obsess upon.

She jerked upwards, fragments of befuddled memories playing across her mind. He'd been there, on a moonlit balcony, and then... something. Something confusing and painful. The Breton struggled to her feet, eyes raking the shoreline of the Rumare until she saw _him_, sitting placidly on one of the rocks that studded the beach.

And his hood was up. Her blood froze over.

"I wear that for a reason, you know."

There was that voice again, as warm and rich as velvet, butter, maple syrup... She'd been picturing a face to match, perhaps with chocolate eyes and a lopsided half-smirk to go along with the wry flippancy of his words.

What she saw was much different.

His enchanting cadences could hardly have contrasted more with his features. He could have been handsome once, but the only thing Avielle could respond with was shock and fear – it was his other facets that dominated her attention. The man's skin was as pale as the sand underfoot, save for a faint flush that played upon his face. His cheeks were more sunken than she would have thought possible – the skin nearly hugged his cheekbones and jaw, giving the impression of a skull. His brow was high, curving elegantly down to a finely proportioned nose; possibly the only feature that hadn't been ravaged by his ovbious vampirism. Almond eyes peered down at her from his gaunt, tapered face, but the fine shape of them was overshadowed by their morbid color. They were a much deeper red than Hassildor's had been, with flecks of lighter scarlet ringing the pupil like a smattering of rubies.

His hair was at odds with his skeletal appearance; it was a deep brown, untouched by even a streak of gray. He wore it tied back in a loose ponytail that fell down to a spot a few inches past the base of his shoulderblades.

But outside her subconscious, it was somehow hard to be terrified at his first appearance; she'd had her dealings with vampires before, and he didn't _look_ like a feral creature. There was something debonair about him. After all, he'd been with Hassildor, and if she recalled correctly, he'd referred to him by first name... so the two seemed to be on good terms, which stood to reason that he was equally civilised. But those last waking memories were coming into focus, and what she realized was not to her liking. He'd whirled around and leapt at her, driving her to the floor... the snapping agony of bones breaking under unbelievable force...

Avielle fingered the sore, stinging spot on her neck. What to say, what to do...

"I am extremely sorry about that, by the way."

She glanced up at him. "About using me as a snack on the go? I do take offense to that, for some strange reason. No idea why."

He slid off the rock, landing on his feet uncomfortably close to where she stood; they both took an uncannily synchronized step backward, at which he smiled wryly at. The minor show of emotion did strange things to his face; his skin was so tightly stretched that it seemed as if it might break if he were to grin any wider.

"My sincerest apologies, Avielle. I assure you, it was not my intention to feed... you simply caught me at a very bad time, and I fear I rather lost myself. Do not worry, though; I cast a cure spell on you to prevent the disease from taking root."

Avielle was not quite sure how to respond to this. She was rapidly revising her image of vampires; they weren't necessarily evil, they were just damn confusing. They'd come to your rescue only to tell you off, they'd drink your blood and then apologize profusely as they carried you off to some deserted beach.

"Well, er, thanks, I guess...? Just don't do that again. I feel like hell. Don't be surprised if I throw up on you."

His smile turned apologetic. "I must confess, I did what I could, but the school of restoration tends to elude me."

_And yet you could cast a Cure Disease spell, which isn't exactly novice material. Hmm. _

"Wait... how do you know my name?"

"I overheard it as you were chatting up those Necromancers. Might I suggest, in the future, that you make sure that you're in control of a situation before playing games such as that? I can't always be around to play the gallant hero, you know. It's rather atypical of my style."

Avielle would have blushed furiously at that, but there wasn't enough substance in her veins to manage more than a faint pinkness to her cheeks. "You-"

"But," he cut in, "I suppose it's only fair that you learn mine as well. I am Vicente. Pleased to finally meet you, although admittedly I would prefer it under different circumstances."

"No last name?" she pointed out critically.

"You haven't earned the right to know that much about me yet."

And then, with the force of a mage's fireball, she remembered what she'd planned on asking him. Why he'd been there... what his connection was with the murder she'd personally witnessed.

"Are you one of them?" she asked slowly, her eyes unreadable.

"Hm?" A sinking feeling was beginning to manifest in the vampire's chest. What had she seen...?

"I said, are you one of them? Dark Brotherhood. Don't play dumb with me."

Vicente took a deep breath. This was not going well... but she definitely already knew too much.

"You're not in much of a position to bargain with me, girl. I really wouldn't make it a habit of being this impolite with everyone you meet. Eventually, somebody's going to snap back at you."

"Answer the question." Avielle's words were clipped.

The vampire tilted his head, his ponytail brushing his left shoulder. "I think we both already know the answer to that, Avielle Fradaun."

The next thing he knew, he had jerked backward to avoid the fist that split the air inches from his face. Another swing came, but he was ready for it; he caught her arm none too gently as it came at him. The girl froze, probably at the coldness of his skin, but then she started to struggle so wildly that he was forced to loosen his grip or risk breaking her wrist.

"Let go of me, you fetcher!" she snarled, looking positively demented.

"This has to be a first," Vicente noted, still calm. "I always assumed that if I were to tell people that I was an assassin, I'd garner fear. Not a reckless attack, considering that you're hardly a guard."

"You don't know a thing about me, bastard," Avielle hissed, her free hand starting to glow red as she called forth a nimbus of Destruction magic. This time, Vicente did let go of her arm, taking a step backwards as the girl drew herself up to her full, not very impressive height.

"Afraid?" she taunted, so consumed by rage that she was oblivious to the sheer onesidedness of the fight she was inviting. "My mother spent her whole _life_ trying to get back at you fetchers. She created these spells exclusively to give you the suffering your sick cult deserves."

She had a background with the Brotherhood? Most interesting...

He laid a hand on the cool hilt of his longsword. "If it comes to blows, girl, you'll be dead before you can let off that spell," Vicente warned, his voice level. He was not afraid for himself, nor the Brotherhood – this girl was hardly a threat. But he didn't want to kill her, and she was trying to force his hand. Ironic. "I've been ending lives for two hundred years years now. I may as well note that I'm rather going out of my way to keep you alive, considering how much you know. Please don't throw away these chances."

The girl bared her teeth – which Vicente found very amusing – but she seemed to see the reason in his words, even if it was clear she wanted to tear the vampire from limb to limb. The mist of magic around her one hand fizzled out, and he casually lifted his palm from the blade. She stared at him for a few seconds in uneasy silence, before breaking it in a very flat tone.

"Were you the one who killed Jules Fradaun?"

Fradaun, that name had sounded so familiar before... His memory was very good, but even so, to remember a specific name was rare, considering simply how many people he'd written it off to.

But with the first name given, it all fell into place. An initiation rite some twenty years ago... he'd signed that contract himself, and given it to a prospective member who'd gone on to complete it and joined the Brotherhood, and advanced rather far from there.

"I am familiar with that contract, but no, I was not the one."

Avielle's hands clenched. "Familiar with it how?"

"I signed the death warrant," he said tonelessly. "His previous wife performed the Black Sacrament and arranged for him to be murdered. Her only specific instructions were to make it as painful as possible. It wasn't an uncommon contract, just another revenge killing. I simply affirmed it and passed it on."

With a strangled sort of scream, she threw her silver dagger at him. It was a miserable throw, anger erasing any possible accuracy she might have had. He lifted a bony hand and plucked it from the air as it spun blade over hilt about a foot from his shoulder. He'd seized it partially by the blade, though, and when he proffered it wordlessly back to the mage, his hand was slick with dark, thin blood.

She just gazed at him, motionless. She looked empty, broken, like a fire that had burned itself down to ashes.

"Tell me who killed my father."

"I could," Vicente said levelly, "but if I did, you'd attempt to claim your revenge on him."

"Don't you think I deserve it?" she snarled.

"Perhaps," he allowed, "but the man you intend to slay is my Brother, and one of the most skilled assassins in our Family today. You would not last a second against him. I've watched you fight before, and you're centuries away from being on his caliber."

"I don't care."

"I do, and that is final. Do tell," he said conversationally, sliding her dagger back into her belt, "what exactly happened on your end?"

"Why the hell do you care?" she said dully.

"The same reason I saved you, girl. That is to say, there isn't one. Perhaps I just wish to understand why you've devoted your life to such an impossible cause."

Avielle looked up into his eyes; they were deep red, like lakes of blood. How the hell had she ended up holding a conversation with a Dark Brotherhood vampire? Why did she feel any inclination to tell him the whole story? Maybe a small part of her hoped that she could force even a hint of guilt into that stony heart.

"I hadn't been born yet; my mother was three months pregnant with me when you fetchers killed her husband. You broke her life. From then on, she spent all her time trying to find ways to get back at you the only way she could – magic. Until her experiments got her kicked out of the only other thing she cared about, the University. I was born in High Rock... since I was a baby, she continued mutilating herself with the spells she tried to create. When I was sixteen, she ended up killing herself with a spell gone wrong. I watched her die; it was slow, she was in agony, and I had no idea how to end it all. I tried to heal her, but that just made it _longer_..." She shivered, despite the night's warmth; a haunted note glittered in her blue eyes. "I took up her unfinished work. But that doesn't change the fact that your freakish cult ripped apart our lives just for a bit of gold."

"Dear girl." Vicente's grin was wry again. "When somebody you love is murdered, to whom do you place the blame? Is it the dagger that buries itself in their heart, or the hand that guides it in its fatal dance? The Dark Brotherhood is the dagger, Avielle, nothing more. We do not claim lives for ourselves. If you must pin the blame on somebody, place culpability on the one who ordered your father's death. We merely serve."

"That's bullshit logic, and you know it."

"Is it?" The vampire's tone became a shade more pensive. "Do you think I've never been asked to do anything against my will?" No, even one hundred and twenty five years later, the Purification never left you... "We follow the will of Sithis. Whether or not it conflicts with our own desires is completely irrelevant. They don't matter... no, nothing matters." That moment of latent vulnerability was gone, replaced by his usual unaffected demeanor. "As soon as the Black Sacrament was performed, your father was doomed. It's as simple as that. If your mother had been in the Brotherhood and the contract had been given to her, she would have killed him herself. It's happened before."

Avielle's smoldering rage rekindled at the sound of her mother being used in such a hideous example. How _dare_ he?

"You know... the reason I continued on as a mage was so that I could become strong enough to wipe out the Dark Brotherhood. The only reason I'm not trying to kill you is because you've saved my life. And even then, it'll be too soon if I ever see you again. Get out of my face, assassin scum."

Which seemed like a clear dismissal as any; Vicente got to his feet, wondering if he ought to kill her anyways. His fingers tapped a rhythm on his sword's hilt. She really did know too much...

"If you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to anyways. Good night, Avielle. I trust you can make it back to the University from here?" He gestured to the walled complex to the north, lit by violet torches.

"Just get out of my sight," she intoned dully.

The vampire turned away from her. "One last thing."

"And what the hell is that?"

"You never saw me, and the man known as Vicente is most definitely not an assassin. Or a vampire, for that matter. Are we clear?"

"Clear as mud," Avielle shot back. "Why on Oblivion would I want to defend you?"

"Because," the vampire smiled, "if you cannot keep your mouth shut, I fear I shall have to kill you. Or have you forgotten what you're dealing with?"

And with that farewell, the two parted ways once more.


	8. Interlude

**Author's Note: *insert disclaimer about me not being Bethesda Softworks here* Gleeing over the amount of reviews here. Hmm, lot of reviews means a long note, so I'll try to keep it short. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review. :)**

**Lady Reva – If you have the pc version, do ' a0dd'. Their pants don't actually catch fire, but it is funny. As for the next meeting, I look forward to it as well :D**

**Arty – I am honored. :O I hope I live up to that. And Ray's appearance was loosely based on Jace Wayland, from the Mortal Instruments series, although Jace is much wittier and far more intelligent than Ray. :D Very good books, those.**

**NoSoundComes – Ah, I see. Well, that's sort of how I talk. I tend to let thoughts and sentences trail off – the people who know me eventually get really well at guessing what I would have finished with, because I guess I process things so quickly that I don't have the... patience? to stick on one train of thought for long. I'll try to be more mindful of it, but it's a hard habit to break. As for Avielle's backstory, I'm glad you liked it! I had a lot of fun planning that one out, which actually came after I started this story. (I began not knowing where the heck I'd go from the first chapter – it's sort of a fun challenge, really, to write something reasonably random, and then pick up on details and possibilities from the writing to draw backstories and plot twists from.)**

**DualKatanas – I see what you mean about the improbability of it all – I wondered how to do that as well, but I needed that to happen to progress the story the way I wanted it to, so sometimes you need to stretch logic a little. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that between suppressed hunger and frustration at his idiot protegee, Vicente was too stressed to have the usual range of perception or attention that he usually does. I hope I can keep writing long(ish) chapters like that one, because while it's not my style, it seems my standards have been a tad below par. As for his looks; it's a little bit of Avielle's embellishment, but yes, I am sticking to my non-canonic ancient vampire thing.**

**Carlotta – Yep, he is :D And I'm glad that you think I've managed to keep from Sueing so far – that tends to be a weakness of mine, and I really am trying to work on it.**

**Spyrogirl – Yay, another new reviewer! I'm glad you like it! And I had quite a bit of fun writing that block of dialogue. I almost started giggling in the middle of Precalc. Thankfully, though, I didn't :B**

**Dreamer – Even more reviewers, glee :D I tend to pick up Oblivion, beat the mage and main questlines with a few different characters, mess around with the console, and then set it back down for another year or so too. It's one of those games that's just great to keep playing over and over again. As for Avielle... if there's one thing I hate in a story, it's an OC Mary-Sue. Sues from characters already established are semitolerable, imo, depending on their level of Sueness, but when somebody takes a story and plonks in a perfect sparkly sexy character that everyone immediately loves, I get very annoyed. I'm glad you like what I have so far, and I hope you enjoy what's to come!**

**...yeah, so much for short. So I guess I'll just write a lot to make this seem **_**relatively**_** short. Here goes.**

It was at perhaps four in the morning when Avielle pushed her way through the Arcane University's gates.

The murder had not gone unnoticed, and the staffing at the entryway was much higher than usual, let alone the guild's interior; one of the Imperial Battlemages had almost pulled Avielle aside for questioning, but stopped when she turned to look at him, and wordlessly let her go through.

"It was sort of scary," he later remarked. "That girl – Franaud, I think? Dufraun? Doesn't matter. She usually comes back here looking majorly ticked off. Real firebrand, that one. Sometimes you can hear her yelling at Polus from all the way out here. Got a set of lungs on her, that's for sure. But this time... I dunno, she just seemed empty. Harsh and empty. Like a burned-out torch. Really, she looked like somebody had just died, so I thought maybe she knew something about the murder... but with her looking that beaten, I just let her go. It would have been wrong."

But Avielle's ashes had a tendency to flare up again; many embers were scattered in her mind, ready to ignite no matter how little energy she had left.

She cast a glance at the Mage Quarters; she knew there was no point in trying to get a moment's sleep now, not with the guards swarming the building, not with the memories of the girl's blood painting the walls... not with the confused and furious knowledge that buzzed in her mind like a hive of angry hornets.

He was Brotherhood. He'd saved her, twice, and he was Brotherhood. He was a vampire, too, much more so one than Hassildor. But his nature, attack included, paled in comparison to his alignment.

Brotherhood.

Thanks to that word, she'd never known a father.

Thanks to that word, she'd watched her mother's burned body pass away in her own arms.

Thanks to that word, she was alive.

But why? _Why_? She didn't want to be grateful to him! How was she supposed to claim revenge on something she owed her life to? It was incongruous – the whole notion of having been saved by the vilest of assassins made her feel almost nautious. The fact that she'd halted her attack just when he'd asked her to, looking so damnedly calm as she brought out her mother's only legacy to raze him with – why had she listened, why had she stopped? Why had he had to save her in the first place? Why couldn't this Vicente have let her die, _just so things would have still made sense at the end?_

There were too many _why_s, especially in a situation that had been clear to her ever since she'd delved into the comments she'd heard at her mother's funeral. _"It's such a shame,_" they'd said. _"So young... the poor girl only wanted to set things straight. She loved him that much." _The Dark Brotherhood were _evil, _and she shouldn't have to rationalize it past it for it to make sense. Damn Vicente. Damn him!

She hadn't been strong enough to save herself, and if she had been, she wouldn't be in the paradox she faced now.

Avielle realized something then, a crystal-clear note ringing out from the cacophony of thoughts clashing in her mind.

Revenge was not something you sat down at a table and waited patiently for.

Revenge was something you struggled for, risked for, died for... a path you walked alone.

And so Avielle Fradaun turned to the Arch-Mage's lobby.

Raminus Polus was by the table, looking somewhat more fatigued than his usual cocky self; his glossy black hair was mussed up, his brows were pulled down, and a shiny streak of sweat gleamed at one temple. Upon hearing her approach, he looked up from the report he was poring over. "Oh... it's you. Good. I have another task for you."

The girl shot him a dull glance. "Not interested."

"You must see Irlav Jarrol about his latest... what?" Raminus had been Traven's secretary for over ten years, and never once had anyone refused an order. Avielle Fradaun was a real piece of work. "What did you say?"

"I said, I'm not interested. Maybe you should get your ears cleaned. Irlav can handle his latest what by himself."

"I have a task for you," the Master-Wizard repeated, his face beginning to redden with anger. "This is insubordination, Fradaun."

Avielle threw her hands in the air in exasperation. "This had better not be about the necrophiliacs again!"

"Necromancers, Avielle. _Necromancers_. There's a difference."

The Breton treated him to one of her most pathetic stares. "Raising corpses, screwing corpses, it doesn't change the fact that I don't give a damn."

"You should!" the Imperial exploded, finally giving in to the overpowering urge to scream at the thick-headed Journeyman. "This is your Guild we're talking about, on the verge of destruction! If we sit around and do nothing, Tamriel's network of mages could be toppled from the center out! It's a collective effort, and I'm pulling teeth just to get you to contribute a modicum!"

Avielle met this with equal fury. "I don't see you _contributing_ worth a damn, unless strutting around the lobby all day is part of some complex incantation to fix everything."

"Help your Guild and your Guild will help you!" By now, a pair of Scholars up late had gathered nervously at the doors to see what the commotion was, but both combatants were immune to this.

"Yeah, fat load of help you are," the Breton seethed. "I have yet to see any kind of reward from you, besides a mandatory _stick_, a free trip to spy on a vampire and his necromancer steward, and a guarantee that assassins can come in here and pick us all off like sheep!"

Raminus froze.

"You heard about that?"

"Sort of hard not to, with all the guards walking around. They're a dead giveaway, if nobody ever mentioned it to you. Withholding information does not work that way. But it gets better. I _saw_ it," she snarled. "The Dark Brotherhood bastard killed that girl in front of my own eyes, but you wouldn't care about _that_, would you, what with your damned necro-problem taking up all of your precious time?"

She leaned in closer, eyes smoldering. "I've got news for you, Polus. I didn't fight my way up to the Arcane University to _help_. I couldn't give less of a damn about your infighting. Does the name Casselia Fradaun sound familiar to you? I came to _learn_, so I could finish my mother's experiments. Finish her revenge. I am going to create magic hitherto unseen, hone it, and use it to wipe the Dark Brotherhood off the face of Tamriel. And if those fetchers can get in here without a key, I'm sure I can too, if I ever need to come back to this damn place."

With that, Avielle took the silver key to the University's gates – the symbol of mastery and entitlement she'd worked so hard and long to attain – and tossed it carelessly at the Master-Wizard's feet. She spun around, ungraciously shoving a gawking Altmer scholar out of her way as she crossed the wooden floor.

The door slammed behind her, and she was gone.

0o0o0

Time carries us forth like a symphony; the pressing forward of a multitude of different instruments. Some are independent and some are intertwined, some fade away while others spring anew. Two strains of music can begin as one and split apart into their own solo roles – some remain that way, and some are fated to coalesce back into a splendid crescendo.

Two instruments can relax into a steady, subdued rhythm, no less beautiful than when they held the spotlight. They fall back into their typical, predictable routines, serving as the backdrop for the other chords that take point and carry forth the piece.

Sometimes, the entire symphony returns to that background state. The music's power is latent; one can close their eyes and passively enjoy the nonconfrontational repetition, but there is an omnipresent tension that gradually and surreptitiously reveals itself – a subconscious awareness that this quieter period carries an undercurrent that promises a flare back to grandeur that draws nearer with every note.

Two instruments can spring forth from their seperate, subdued paths like storm clouds breaking; they can join together in a blaze of sound that rocks the audience to its roots.

Picture, then, if you will, that time is a symphony. Months passed, summer gave way to snow and ice, and Vicente and Avielle's brief duette with fate faded back into two distinct lives – that of a conflicted, vengeful young girl, and a sophisticated vampire assassin. One wandered, and one stayed still; one seethed with rage, and one maintained an unshakable tranquility. But the melody only plays for so long, and the symphony is far from over.

The story is far from over.

0o0o0

Vicente had just about figured Ray out.

The kid was as strong as a bull troll, and almost as smart. He was the type of assassin you chose when you needed everyone in a certain area brutally mowed down. Not for anything else. This had been made painfully clear when he had given him the Motierre contract, simply because no one else had been available at the time, and it had been an unorthodox job with a very specific time limit.

"You know," he'd said, reaching for a glass of the vampire's finest vintage wines and downing it in one gulp, "you probably didn't need to send me over to Chorrol at all. There was this_ other_ guy trying to kill him, can you believe it?"

A sinking feeling manifested itself in Vicente's stomach. "That was the point of the contract, yes...?"

"Oh, don't worry, I killed him too. It was hilarious." He poured more wine, drinking the century-and-a-half-old vintage like one would down cheap beer. "Motierre was like, 'no, stop, you're supposed to be saving me', and I was like 'yeah, right', because isn't that ridiculous? I mean, like, seriously. He was screaming like my sister. But anyways, that knife you gave me was a little pathetic, so I used my sword – I hope you don't mind – and offed him, and then this Argonian shows up. He's all like, 'this one has stolen my prey' because lizards always talk in third person, and I'm like, 'well, okay, you can still eat him if you want', although seriously, I think that's, like, cannibalism or something. He was all like, 'Imperial fool, this one was sent to hunt him', and while I was thinking, like, who in Oblivion uses the word fool, I was still being nice, and I'm like, 'well then, dude, I just made your job way easier, so you can go take a swim now or whatever', but he has an anger issue and just keeps getting mad, so I ask him if he wants to go get a beer with me at the Oak and Crosier, and he freaking pulls an axe on me. Seriously, who doesn't want a free beer? I'm like, 'woah, chill, dude', but he starts trying to cleave me, so I offed him too. Man, I love my job. Can I have my money now?"

Yes... to say Ravolian was an Orc in an Imperial's body would have been an insult to dear Gogron. At least he actually listened to a contract's instructions. Vicente had passed the newest member off to Ocheeva after that fiasco, for the sake of his nerves. How was he supposed to keep his work running smoothly if his newest lackey wasn't even listening to his instructions?

Still, it was hard to doubt that Ray was fiercely loyal to the Brotherhood, if for nothing other than the fact that he was getting paid to go out and have his idea of a good time. He liked everyone in the Sanctuary, no matter how little the sentiment was reciprocated. M'raaj-Dar unconditionally hated him, Vicente thought he had the intellectual capacity of a mudcrab, and the Shadowscale twins found him far too loud, but for the most part, the others were unable to resist his perpetual and dementedly happy demeanor. Gogron and him would often spend their free nights seeing who could drink more before passing out and laughing about their more gory contracts. Ray could definitely be a charmer, but his casual enjoyment of indiscriminating slaughter made him destined to be at home only among killers, no matter how much of an oaf he was.

Any attempts to teach him stealth or tactics had gotten nowhere. Whenever the Imperial did manage to creep up on a target unawares, he always gave himself away by caving in to the desire to pull off a self-gratifying one-liner before dealing his madly powerful blows.

"You risk your target managing to retaliate or alert the authorities if you pause to tell them you're the Angel of Death," Vicente had once tersely explained to a rather drunk Ravolian. "And Sithis is your god, not your 'bro'."

Completely oblivious to the insinuations that Vicente had been watching him on his contracts, Ray had held his thumb and index finger an inch apart. "Sithis and I are _this _close, man. This close."

Something Vicente found very difficult to believe.

His muscles were definitely not for show. Ray had split some of the dummies cleanly in half during practicing routines, and those wooden bodies had endured over a century of rigorous slashing from Brothers and Sisters honing their skills. He was very strong, enough so that Vicente was able spar with him without completely restraining himself, but he reminded the vampire of a hyperactive pet dog. Always wagging its tail no matter how much you scolded it, always following his master's commands without really understanding them, and of course, smitten with the uncontrollable desire to destroy things.

What had Lucien been thinking...?

Which brought the vampire's attention to the present; a letter lying atop his pile of paperwork, signed with the seal of the Black Hand. It was most likely from Lucien Lachance; Speakers tended to keep to their respective Sanctuaries, and contact from Ungolim was exceedingly rare. Even so, Lucien had been quiet for the last few months; they hadn't even seen him stop by the Sanctuary since before Ravolian had been recruited.

He read it, taking in Lucien's slanted script – yes, it was definitely the Speaker – and frowned.

It was unlike Lucien to specifically request that a contract go to a certain member, much less himself. No matter what authority he had, Vicente was still his senior, and his place in the Brotherhood was primarily to keep things running smoothly rather than to do the fieldwork. Poring over the contract, he noted that there was nothing about it that even designated it to his talents. Yes, it was not necessarily an easy contract, and he was a master of stealth, but Telaendril or Ocheeva would have been just as suitable for the matter at hand. There was a nobleman in Anvil who had to die in a particular fashion. Some heir to his wealth likely wanted the whole thing to look like an accident; he had to break into a manor and poison the man's dinner. He did have just the thing for the case, a specially brewed poison he'd made by mixing some ingredients native to Morrowind with nightshade and harrada. One of the main ingredients was Sweetpulp, the orange gel secreted from a decorative Mournhold cactus. Its addition to the mix activated paralyzing neurotoxins in the harrada, but more importantly gave it a pleasant and unassuming taste that was easy to hide in glazes and desserts. The resulting death was very hard to distinguish from a bad onset of Chanthrax Blight. But still, it didn't change the fact that this contract was, if anything, beneath him. It was neither particularly difficult nor required his unique skills as a vampire.

Either Lucien wanted him out of the Sanctuary for something, or it was a trap.

Suspiscions rose in the back of his mind like striking serpents. A less cautious man might have called him paranoid for it, but the whole command didn't make sense. It was redundant, abnormal, and Lucien had been silent for a great deal of time. Lucien only ceased dipping into the affairs of the Sanctuary when he had his own schemes to concoct.

But in the end, even he was not above the highest rule of the Brotherhood, something he knew far too well... something that even a hundred and twenty five years could not take away.

The silent scream of rage and self-hatred that had burned in his throat, the tears he couldn't shed... The knowledge that those who had come to trust him and see him as family were dead by his hand, their only crime having been to fall under a generalized suspiscion... The faces that would flare up in his recurring nightmares, their empty eyes somehow accusing, fixed in one last stare of incredulity and betrayal... Pleading before the Black Hand on his knees, begging them to never employ such means again... The futile nights he'd spent flexing his fingers, imagining the crimson blood that stained his slender hands, trying emptily to console himself that Sithis would welcome them with the highest honor... that he hadn't had a choice. He could have refused, and died, but for what? It wouldn't have saved them, and he was a fool to second-guess such an impossibility. And they would have died anyway, as time was not so kind to mortals as it was to himself. He could carry that confusion and misery with him for eternity, and it wouldn't change the facts. It was impossible to feel like he _hadn't_ had a choice, but that was the truth. There never was a choice.

Yes, there was one thing that towered above all others in the Dark Brotherhood, one sacred command that was to be heeded above all else.

Always follow your orders.

0o0o0

**Footnote;**

**Not as long as I hoped, because I was going to write an Avielle part, but I'm not exactly sure where I want her to be. Some stuff has to happen to her before the pair meet up again, as I don't want to write the next stretch from purely Vicente's viewpoint. I was thinking that I'd have her do a side quest or two, because while she's still affiliated with the mages guild, at this point, she wants nothing to do with the University. I was thinking of having her do Through a Nightmare, Darkly, but I can't imagine her putting up with Henantier, even if her reaction to the dreamworld would be cool and allow for some self-improvement. So I decided, why not leave it up to you? Should I go ahead with that idea, or do you have any other quests you think she should do? I'd like to steer clear of any official quest lines, and Avielle is not keen on killing sentient creatures, but other than that, it's pretty open-ended. If you have any ideas, mention them in your reviews!**


	9. Into the Nightmare

**Author's Note: The only characters I own here are the girl with an attitude and the kill-happy imbecile. The other, more enjoyable ones are from Bethesda. B'awwww.**

**Thanks so much to all reviewers – there's so many of you now! :D It's really a motivating factor to sit down and write; even if I have stuff to do, which I always do, I really can't wait to hear your feedback on my piece. It's been a while since I did a fanfic, and the following was a lot smaller back then too. Seeing five reviews between two sessions online is electrifying :P**

**DualKatanas – Well, first off, usually my notes aren't that massive. I had a phenomenal amount of reviews (yay), and the chapter was missing a fairly lengthy section that I'd originally planned to write, because I wanted feedback. Then again, the recurring opinion was that my idea was fine. With Avielle's magic, you're right, and it wouldn't. But it's like you said; rage above reason. The way things are going, she's going to get herself killed if she thinks she can wipe out the Brotherhood with a couple of souped-up custom spells. But mages are very smart in some ways, and very stupid in others. Even so... I dislike confining magic to the spell effects available in Oblivion. It seems like it could do so much else... and by that, I mean more than just tossing in removed possibilities from older Elder Scrolls games.**

**Dreamer – I was just redoing that quest, and I was like, I have _got_ to do this. And yeah, I refuse to carry out the Purification. I never complete the DB questline, it breaks my heart too much. I'm glad you agree on the quest I should do, and as for vampire hunters... I don't know, Avielle's experiences with them so far were more civilized than predatory; she probably lumps them closer to sentient than animals. Not a bad idea, though.**

**Reva – I do that too :P Especially Glarthir. There's another script effect spell that, when used, makes a note appear saying 'Bang, you're dead!' and adds some permanent damage health effect until the target dies, then says another note saying 'Hurts, don't it?' Dunno why, but it always makes me lol. The programmers cannot spell, though. :( With Avielle... I'm glad you thought so, although I didn't include any paralysis. :B And those -are- good ideas; maybe I can incorporate them later on.**

**Arty – Lucky! :O We got our first snow of the season today – it was gorgeous, classical snowglobe flakes – but school persevered. :( Anyway. Well... uhm... it's sort of... like... this thing... that... well, yeah. I know. :B But there was a lot more reminiscing and a lot less action in that one; I tried to ration the dot-dot-dots, but ended up saying 'to hell with it' and let it flow naturally. Sometimes that's what I have to do. :s I didn't really have much to say on Telaendril and Antoinetta – I can't really see them interacting with Ray that much either way. And I'm not nearly as good a writer as you... also, stupid, but I'm sort of new here, and while I have a general idea, what's a beta? Lastly, everscamps + Avielle = LOL. I already started working on Through a Nightmare, but I really gotta use this stuff later on...**

**Carlotta – I had been waiting to throw in that line since I first introduced the necromancers/necrophiliacs joke, heh. Glad you liked it :D As for the quests you mentioned... Avielle's immediate family is already dead and canonically, Phillida is probably dead at this point, along with something else you'll just have to wait and find out. With Avielle and vampirism... I've been toying with that idea, but it seems a theme that's so often used these days in so many stories, and while I'm not completely ruling it out as a possibility, it seems like Avielle has enough character as it is without having to add that to her list of personal struggles. Having said that, oblivion vampires over oblivion mortals any day. But too many is too many. Regardless, still very good suggestions. :D**

"Wait. Just... say that again. I have to do _what_?"

Avielle had come to Bravil – so very much the picture of homely charm and a place she wanted to be in – after hearing that another mage had been crossing the law-imposed limitations of magical practice. She detested Bravil's rotting slums and crime, but in the past few months, her experimentation with stretching the possibilities of Destruction had not been yielding much. Her mother had risked more, certainly, and her death was a testament to that, but she'd created immensely powerful spells that could be casted with nearly no drain on one's reserves of magicka. Avielle had constructed some titanic castings too, but she couldn't _feel_ them the way her mother's spells resonated within her. The amount of willpower and energy she needed to bend the massive storms of fire and frost to her will was more than she had at the best of times. Since she wasn't sure how she could go about increasing her capacity for magic – it seemed as ludicrous a prospect as growing a larger head or changing color at will – she decided she needed to find a way to decrease the sheer tax it took to cast them, and while she _refused_ to crawl back to Raminus, the fact remained that Avielle needed help.

Upon arriving in the crusted-over jewel of the Niben, the Breton had discovered that Henantier was nowhere to be found. Everyone she pestered agreed that while it wasn't unlike him to vanish for days at a time, his friend seemed beside herself. Avielle knew this 'friend'; she'd been one of the chapter heads, an Argonian who'd sent her to track down a runaway Altmer's staff. While not very dangerous, it had involved a lot of trekking back and forth over Cyrodiil, and Avielle was rarely very benevolent towards those who put her up to jobs.

Kud-Ei had been desperate for help, though, and welcomed the Breton's aid as warmly as she would have the Arch Mage's. Perhaps even moreso, because apparently Henantier had been in some trouble with the Council, and he only had one chance left before he'd be expelled. Avielle sympathised.

However, her sympathy was breaking under the unwelcome strain that meeting Henantier was going to involve _work_, and the very strange kind, at that. The High Elf in question was in one of two beds next to her, twitching and rolling in a slumber that seemed to be completely unbreakable. She'd tried all kinds of stimuli, from pinching to bringing a book down over his head – Kud-Ei had not been happy – but nothing prompted any response. He truly was locked in rest; he could have been dead, if not for his occasional mumble or convulsion.

"You have to put on this amulet and go to sleep," the Argonian repeated, somewhat impatiently.

"...I don't know about you, but sleeping rarely ever fixed my problems in the past." Avielle rolled her eyes, but laced the locket around her neck anyways. It was an alluring shade of blue, with misty sparks roiling inside not unlike a Soul Gem. Breton sensitivy could feel the magicka humming within like electricity. "It _can't_ be that easy. It never is. What's the real job here?"

"This locket is the portal to Henantier's Dreamworld. He intended to use his own mind as a training ground, so I can't guarantee what you'll see there, but prepare for the worst. You have to be careful in there. He explained to me once that he had turned his dreams into a reality, and that injury there meant injury in the real world. I can only assume that the means death in his Dreamworld is real too, by extension. You have to find him and ask him what went wrong. Also, I don't know how you'll get _out_ of there, but don't leave without Henantier. He only had two amulets, and from what I can tell, the one he used to enter his Dreamworld doesn't work now. They seem to be one-use, and only he knew how to make them. If you leave without him, I don't know any other way to contact him."

The Breton had stopped listening past the _out_. "Are you saying I'm just going to get trapped in there forever? Forget about it." No amount of disappointment was worth getting sealed in a fake reality for all eternity.

"Avielle, wait!" Kud-Ei cried, alarmed.

"Do it yourself, Kud-Ei. I'm sorry, but I really just can't take that risk. Find out how to get out of that place safely and come find me again." She started to turn towards the door.

Avielle had about halfway pivoted before something green flashed behind her, accompanied by a rasped incantation. Before she could look to see what the chapter head was playing at, however, she stumbled, stretching out a hand to prop herself against the wall. Fatigue weighed down her limbs like lead pipes, and a thick fog rolled in from the corners of her mind. So tired... what had she been doing? Something about an Argonian and a pretty necklace and a bed...

A bed...

"I'm sleepy," Avielle drawled aloud, struggling to keep her eyelids open. The lashes kept falling down like black silk, blankets, so _heavy_. She swayed on her feet, her balance dissolving into the mist in her mind. Had to sleep. Just had to close her eyes for a moment, and then she could get up and remember what she'd been doing. It couldn't have been important, could it? It could wait...

Something scaly was on her shoulder then, pushing her gently towards something soft and flat. The bed. Wow. Those hands were nice, guiding her all the way to the mattress after her vision became too blurry to find it. She'd have to thank them. Avielle tried to, but all that came out was a mumbling, indecipherable noise.

Her head fell back, and the Breton slipped into an Altmer's dreams.

0o0o0

The road from Cheydinhal to Anvil was one of the longest treks an assassin in Vicente's province would usually have to take. Of course, the Leyawiin Sanctuary was a bit farther from Anvil than Cheydinhal, and there were always contracts to visit settlements even farther out, but it was a lengthy walk nonetheless. So it was perhaps four days after he set out from his city when he reached Anvil's gates. The last time he had been to the harbor city had been roughly sixty years ago; even from where he stood, on the snowbound path, he could smell the salt in the cool air. The sea moderated Anvil's temperature, and it was somewhat warmer than the Gold Road had been, but a thick white blanket still coated the city walls and surroundings, smothering the dried-up aloe and morning glory that alchemists often harvested. Having no heat of his own, the season's chill did not bother the vampire, even though he preferred warmth over cold.

There was a hooded figure standing before the gates. The single night-shift guard was staring at it, but from his distance, Vicente could hardly make out more. As he approached, he saw that the person sported a tufted tail, and that it – a male Khajiit, as it turned out – was holding an armful of calipers. He hadn't realized calipers were so popular. Perhaps times had changed.

"M'aiq knows much, tells some," rasped the Khajiit as Vicente made his way down the sloped road. "M'aiq knows many things others do not."

This M'aiq wasn't looking at the guard, and there was nobody else around, so Vicente assumed that he had to be talking to him. "A fine night to you, mister M'aiq."

The Khajiit plowed on as though the vampire had not spoken. "Werewolves? Where? Wolves? Men that are wolves? Many wolves. Everywhere. Many men. That is enough for M'aiq."

"Come again?" Vicente blinked.

"Was much debate over whether or not werewolves should be included in the game," the former explained in earnest. "M'aiq is glad they were not. M'aiq saw one in the last game. Was too busy sitting on chair to run away. Except M'aiq was not allowed to sit in the first place. Bad, very bad."

"...What game?" Okay, so calipers probably weren't a new fashion statement. Insanity was. First Glarthir, now this. Had Sheogorath claimed dominion over Cyrodiil recently? Vicente really needed to get out more often.

M'aiq made a sweeping gesture, waving one paw in a wide arc to encompass the surrounding. "This, that. Everything. The trees, the snow, you, M'aiq, calipers. Is all game. M'aiq has seen other games, likes this one much more. Has calipers in it. Does not have to stand next to chair all day. Can sit if Khajiit wants to. Is allowed to move of own accord, too. Oblivion is good game."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Vicente managed, as politely as he could. "The entire world is a... game? And I believe you mean Nirn, or at least Tamriel. Oblivion is another plane, and one which you would not like to find yourself in, at that."

The Khajiit shook his head vigorously. "Is not Nirn. Is Oblivion. Makes for better title, has a four in the center. Like Morrowind, except is not Morrowind. Bah, why does Khajiit explain this to you? You are not the Hero."

This conversation was going absolutely nowhere.

Had Vicente been Ray – a terrifying thought for the Brotherhood indeed – he would have mowed down M'aiq simply for existing. But the vampire was thankfully not psychotic, and instead managed to free himself of the Khajiit through another, less illegal, and highly less violent means.

"Sir, I do believe I spotted a pair of calipers over there," he said, pointing in the general direction of Whitmond Farm.

The Khajiit's ears shot up to such a degree that his tattered hood actually slid off his head. "Calipers! M'aiq thanks you very much, kind sir."

With that, M'aiq the Liar fled at a speed that even a full vampire like Vicente would have been hard-pressed to match. The assassin watched in some amusement for a moment as the Khajiit started tearing apart the farm's storage barrels for his obsession, then returned to the task at hand.

The guard at the Anvil gateway gave the other hooded man – this one in black, and with none of his face visible – a large grin. "Thanks, sir. He's been standing there ever since my shift began. Whenver I asked him what his business was, he just said 'Khajiit has no time for you' and started playing with his calipers. Kind of creeped me out, I admit."

"I can see how you'd feel that way." Vicente laughed softly, wondering just how 'creeped out' the guard would be if he wasn't covering his face.

"Yeah, well. I take it you want to get in? It's a chilly night, that's for sure. You're out late."

"I would, thank you. And business calls," the vampire replied, not entirely lying. "You know how it is."

"Sure do." The guard pulled the gates open, kicking some snow off the ground to make way. "The Flowing Bowl is a good place to stay, if you want to get some sleep after your travels."

"Thank you for the tip, and good night to you, sir."

The smell of salt and fish greeted him; yes, this was definitely a seaside city. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear the strong scent from his nostrils. The snow here had been shoveled off the streets, and a thin layer of frost was all that laced the cobblestone here. The Mages Guild cast long shadows over the stone, and a part of his mind floated towards a certain wayward guild associate. But fate had finally seemed to let them stay apart, and this was no time for reminiscing. He glanced towards the harbor, where the faint voices of sailors echoed. Perhaps the Flowing Bowl was a fine inn, but sleep was the last thing on his mind.

Instead, he turned east, where the faintest touch of dawn painted the night skies above the manor district.

Time to see what Lucien had in store for him.

0o0o0

Avielle woke up to a hellish mist.

Her first thought was that, somehow, she'd ended up in one of the scenes of Oblivion that books so often portrayed; the air seemed red, and a smell like char assailed her nostrils. But no skies were made of wood, and the conversation preceding her inexplicable languidness quickly returned to her mind. Damn that Kud-Ei. Put her to sleep, would she? The Mages Guild really knew how to play dirty when it wanted to. Thank the Nines she'd gotten out of the University while she could. She slid off the bed, her legs aching in protest. How long had she been asleep? It felt like an era, but it couldn't have been that long... but she was in the Dreamworld, wasn't she, thanks to that Argonian? Time didn't necessarily have to mean anything in somebody's mind.

She fingered the locket around her neck; the string wouldn't budge. It appeared to be stuck to her neck, almost like a collar. Even though this didn't hurt, it dampened the headstrong girl's mood considerably. It was so... demeaning.

The next thing she noticed was a bewildered-looking, completely naked Altmer standing about two meters away from her. Avielle's eyebrows shot up, and she hastily set her eyes on his face and vowed to keep them there. Sweet Mara, he hadn't even been wearing a loincloth... She shuddered. A similar amulet was clasped around his neck, but while hers was shining, his seemed to be dead, dulled out; however, the Breton realized she could no longer feel magic coming from hers anymore, despite its resplendence. Avielle had assumed Henantier was a bright one, considering his successes in pushing the borders of magic, but the mer before her was giving her a very vapid look.

"Who are you?" he finally asked, his tone sounding oddly distorted.

"Someone Kud-Ei sent to rescue your helpless goldenrod self." Avielle rolled her eyes; she'd met more intellectual-sounding mudcrabs. "Come on, let's move it. You know how to get out of this place, right?"

"Out...?" Henantier repeated blithely. "This... place? This place... what is this place? How did I get here? Are you real?"

_Seriously?_ Avielle thought. "You _made_ this place, idiot, and you came here, to boot. So I'm really hoping you know a damn way out of here, because it sort of sucks. And you'd better believe I'm real."

"I..." The mer trailed off. "I'm missing something."

"Like your mind?" the Breton snorted.

"Yes... I think. Parts of it... gone. Somewhere, here, not here. Can't get out. Who are you? Who am I?"

Avielle's patience broke. "Snap out of it!" she yelled, grabbing Henantier by the shoulders and shaking him none too gently. "I'm trying to rescue you, damn it, so you can buck up and _cooperate_, you moron!"

He just started at her blankly. "Cooperate...?"

It was no use. She clocked him in the face – he swayed with the punch, but otherwise didn't react. There was no anger, no surprise. He'd managed to get one thing right in his babbling, that he was missing something. The Altmer seemed broken, empty. Avielle had met some thick people in her life, but he was barely a step above comatose. It was almost as if something vital had been ripped out of his mind, leaving him still functioning by a thread.

She took her attention from the befuddled mer and surveyed her surroundings more closely. It was a twisted but accurate replica of Henantier's bedroom in the waking world. Tables were overturned, his four-poster bed had been ripped apart by what looked like giant claws, and the standard mages' alchemy equipment on his bedside table bubbled with an eerie, tar-colored liquid that dissipated into slinking mist whenever it boiled over. A hellish red glow replaced daylight, streaming through the windows.

Uncomfortable, she tried to call up a magelight to cast away the unearthly hues in a more welcoming tone.

Nothing happened.

Avielle frowned. She wasn't a dab hand at illusion, but a light spell was one of the easiest things a mage could access. She tried again, this time saying the incantation aloud to strengthen the spell.

The arcane words wouldn't even come to her lips, and still no light came.

_Damn it_, she cursed. Silence. No wonder she couldn't feel the amulet's magicka. It was rendering her as sensitive as a sweetroll.

But it couldn't be an ordinary Silencing spell, could it? After all, she'd just been speaking. Silence rendered a person practically muzzled – they were both unable to access magic and unable to speak.

"Aaah," she uttered experimentally. Definitely audible. Henantier didn't even glance at the strange noise, continuing to stare in rapture at the wall. For all the intensity of his stare, he could have been watching a line of cabaret dancers. She didn't see how he could possibly appear any less intelligent.

She tried to call up another spell, but she couldn't _feel _it; that warm area where she normally reached for magicka was absent, leaving her as helpless as a child.

It was then that she noticed something that had no counterpart in the real world; a giant stone door with the word 'Courage' insribed on it in bloodred letters.

Well, she sure as Oblivion wasn't getting anything done by just waiting around. As it was, the Altmer was never going to stop being a moron long enough to remember how to escape this place. Could you find parts of somebody's mind just lying around? In a dream, Avielle supposed anything was possible.

She pushed the door open. It was time to see what Henantier's Dreamworld had in store for her.

0o0o0

The nobleman's house was large and lavish. It was easily the grandest mansion on the street, and possibly the finest place to live in Anvil, second to the castle. Unfortunately for the old Imperial noble, the larger a house was, the more loose ends were bound to exist in security.

Vicente was hardly the type of assassin who needed a godsend to sneak into a house, but he didn't turn down the golden opportunity that presented itself to him - the trapdoor into the wine cellar. It was definitely empty, and he kept his innate invisibility ability at his fingers just in case – he was definitely in control of the situation. So why was unease causing the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle?

Perhaps he was just being a paranoid old man, but if that was the case, there was nothing like a healthy dose of paranoia to keep one alive in his line of work. If Lucien had planned some kind of trap with this contract, he'd be in for a surprise. It took a lot to bring Vicente down, unless certain debilitating elements were at play. He had perhaps half an hour before the sun rose, and since he needed to poison a meal – nobody would be eating this early – he'd need to hide in the mansion for the entire day. Such a thing would be a frightening prospect for a less experienced assassin, but the vampire knew how to keep himself hidden; for the latter half of the century before he joined the Brotherhood, he'd wandered from place to place, using others' lodgings for shelter more often than not. Unless trickery was at work, the only thing he needed to worry about was the persistent burning in the back of his throat.

He delicately shut the trapdoor behind him, making almost no noise whatsoever. Dust motes whirled at his feet, stirred by the sudden breeze. He let his senses range out, trying to put his atypical worry to rest. It didn't smell like anyone had been down here for at least a few days, and the only things his ears could pick up were a rat scuttling somewhere and the slow drip of a leaking wine barrel.

Vicente made his way through the cellar, taking great care not to disturb the placement of the basement's clutter. After all, it was supposed to be as if he had never been here, and some people could be surprisingly perceptive about the slightest changes. Pausing at the stairs, he briefly closed his eyes – when they opened, they glowed a faint silver. He let his Hunter's Sight scan the floor above him, seeking out the oscillations of life that would give away the presence of any early risers. It was wise that he had – there were a purple silhouettes moving rhythmically back and forth, probably maids sent out to clean. One was to the south and the other to the east, neither overly close to his current location. He let his vision fade back to normal, satisfied.

He'd left both of his main weapons at home, leaving himself with only an ebony dagger to guard himself with if things turned sour. The vampire had every right to be confident, both in that he wouldn't be caught, and that he could take on Anvil's entire watch with only one weapon if need be. A longsword and claymore were detriments to stealth – they weighed a person down and made their steps heavier, and they tended to rasp in their sheathes if one so much as shifted from one foot to the other.

With a vial of poison in his travelling cloak's pocket, the vampire made his way up the stairs.

0o0o0

Avielle found herself in an entirely different setting than before; instead of the hellish, ruined room, she now stood in a tropical grotto. A warm breeze carressed her face, strange trees formed leafy walls around her, and fern fronds tickled her bare feet.

Bare feet...? Hadn't she been wearing shoes?

The Breton looked down and realized that she was stark naked. A furious blush flamed in both cheeks. Oh, hell. How long had she not been wearing anything? The whole time? She'd have noticed her clothes falling off, unless it had been when she'd been dumped into the Dreamworld. No wonder Henantier hadn't been clothed. By the Divines, this place _sucked._

And Henantier hadn't even mentioned it? The bloody pervert. Then again, he was so out of it that he probably didn't even know what clothes were.

But she was thankfully alone now. She tried to cast the issue of nudity from her mind and searched for a way onward. Just trees on her sides and a smooth, rocky cliff ahead. There was nothing promising, save for a sparkling pool in the center of the glade, perhaps a few meters away from her. The water – was it water? sparkled in uneartly hues, glistening pink, orange, and deep cerulean under the dream sun. Oher than that, there was nothing. She stepped closer, trying to peer into the waters. If she squinted hard enough, she could see that the far end of the waters seemed darker, deeper, and that the beginnings of a tunnel had been carved out from the cliff; a slice of it was visible aboveground, and then it sloped down into the water.

But she was not going to just dive into an underwater passage without being able to gauge where it led first. Which she couldn't. And with her magic dead, she couldn't breathe water or heal herself. If she couldn't do that, well... screw Henantier, she was going to find a way out of this place herself. She turned around for the door, only to find it had simply vanished. There was nothing behind her but thick foliage.

"Damn it," she swore. It looked like the only way out was forward.

She stepped cautiously into the pond, hoping that what she assumed to be water wasn't actually acid or blood or something equally nightmarish. Luckily, it wasn't – the liquid was pleasantly warm, almost like bathwater. It was also very shallow, barely up to her ankles. A minature island jutted out a bit further in, and she made her way towards it, feeling the wet sand squish under her feet. The 'island' was barely more than a large rock jutting above the surface, but what grabbed her attention about it was the Ayleid cask that was perched atop the pinnacle. She slid it open, and a bottle with a note wrapped around it rolled out; she made a quick double take and just barely caught it.

The bottle was labeled 'Water Breathing', which came as quite some relief to the Breton. At least this place wasn't totally up against her.

She unwrapped the note and read it. The words were in an elegant, heavily slanting script that contained so many loops and flourishes that it was almost difficult to read. She pored over it.

_To restore Henantier's courage, you must prove your own._

What in Oblivion was that supposed to mean?

Unless... actually, it was pretty damn obvious. Courage meant diving into a flooded tunnel in a nightmare, with only one water breathing potion and no fetching idea how long the damn thing was.

She glanced back. The door hadn't magically reappeared.

She wasn't feeling particularly courageous, but what else was there to do? She took a few more steps forward; the ground underfoot sloped sharply, and soon the water lapped against her chest. It wasn't uncomfortable, but she did not like to think about what she was doing.

Avielle uncorked the bottle and tossed the top aside – it vanished into the water with a splash. She scrutinized it for a moment; nothing _seemed_ off about it, but she was in somebody's dream, for Oblivion's sake. Anything could be a trap. But she could do nothing else besides walk straight into them, as unarmed and helpless as she was. She downed the potion and dived into the water.

It worked just fine, which was a weight off Avielle's shoulders. Novice alchemists trying to create a potion for breathing underwater often churned out concoctions that worked, but left you feeling like you were trying to inhale custard, or thickly humid air. This one was expertly crafted, and it felt just like breathing air. Avielle had never been much of a swimmer, but she remembered the basics from her mother, who'd told her how to keep from drowning in case she ever fell into a lake.

It was easier to see underwater than it had been from the surface. Here, everything was just a normal, murky blue, not a whirl of incandescent colors that made it look like the rainbow had just vomited.

The tunnel was a straight shot forward. No branching paths stretched out to confuse her. Her pace wasn't fast, and her paddling was inefficient, but it moved her forward nonetheless. Avielle tried to keep her breathing even, but it quickly grew ragged. She was a mage, and not the fieldwork kind; her physique wouldn't have been impressive compared with a cake's. The tunnel went straight ahead for some time, and then took an almost ninety-degree bend and downward, where the murky outlines of stalactites jutted from the sides. Definitely imposing. But her breathing time was limited, and she only hesitated for a moment before taking the vertical path.

The water grew colder and colder as she swam downwards, her underworked muscles protesting as she continued her wide strokes. How long did this damn thing go down? She couldn't see a turn or bend in sight, but there was no way she could turn back now.

An intense prickling ran over her skin, and she was struck with a sudden jolt of fatigue. It was a sensation she recognized even in her magically dead state, and it came to her with utter dread. It was the feeling of an Alteration spell wearing off. More specifically, water breathing.

Her latest breath came back up, laced with fluid – of course, it meant nothing to her surroundings, also water. The instant she began to choke, natural instinct overcame her, and she instantly tried to draw in another breath. Pure water. Pain cleaved through her chest like a sword, and her lungs burned as if filled with fire instead of water. She started to struggle wildly, knowing the surface was too far to even consider, and that she wouldn't stay conscious for another minute. _I'm going to die_, she thought_. Death in here is real. I'm going to spend my last fetching moments in somebody's nightmare. Damn that Argonian! By the Gods, air, air, ineedair._

In her flailing, her arm knocked against something attached to the stone wall – another cask. Somehow, despite her agony-induced panicking, she realized what it was and managed to pry it open after some terrifyingly slow frantic fumbling. Without bothering to check whether it was potion or poison, she struggled to bring the bottle through the water to her lips, bit off the cork, and choked it down.

The pain slid away like water off stone, and the red dots that swarmed at the edges of her vision scattered like a school of fish. She gasped in another breath, the water filling her lungs turning to air again. She wasted a few seconds staring at the empty bottle in wonder. If she'd been any faster or slower in her swim, or if she'd not been jerking around so wildly, she'd have never found the cask, and that would have been it for her. Death was such a strange and faraway concept until it stared you in the face – it had been a long time since she'd come that close to it.

But there was nothing good that could come from wasting time – all she could do was go forward.

She ignored the ache in her muscles; her close brush with death had rekindled her alertness, and she was determined to make it out of this place alive. The path wound further down, without a sign of another potion, but she kept the shadows of doubt banished to the corner of her mind. There was no time to worry, no time to fear. A sharp stone cut into her bare thigh as she swam, but Avielle didn't even wince.

Something faintly brown came into view amongst the foggy blueness. Strangely enough, there was a trapdoor at the very pit of the tunnel. A trapdoor was hardly any use underwater, but it was _something_, which was better than the lack of change she'd swam through for the past minute. She paddled down towards it, only to feel the telltale tingling of the potion wearing off. Panic rekindled, and she reached for the handle desperately, hoping to find another potion underneath. But there was nothing there, nothing, only complete and utter blackness, which she hurled herself into without a second thought –

...and her head broke the surface, gasping for air. It rushed into her lungs, pure and warm, more refreshing than she'd ever felt before. But what surface? She coughed and spat, trying to clear the water from her lungs. After she'd blinked the darkness from her eyes, Avielle realized the trapdoor or tunnel were nowhere in sight. It was like she'd slipped into a different reality, just like how one door had led her straight from a nightmare room to a tropical paradise. She was chest-deep in a pool of the same sparkling water, with palm trees waving gently on the fringes. But what held her attention was a sparkling, yellow ball of _something_ that whirled and flickered in the air before her.

She gingerly made her way towards it, wondering if this was what she'd taken her plunge for. It was the only thing here, but... was it Henantier's courage? She didn't really see what else it could be, especially as she had no idea what courage was supposed to look like. It hung in the air like a moon or a star, bright but subdued. It didn't seem tangible – as she neared it, she realized that she could see right through it.

Intense warmth radiated from the golden sphere of light, and she carefully stretched out a hand towards it. As soon as the tip of her longest finger was touched by the glow, an overpowering sensation engulfed her. Memories that weren't hers raced through her mind, so fast and fragmented that she could barely make out what they were. There was an Altmer arguing with an important-looking figure in what looked like the Arch-Mage's lobby, and then it was all gone; suddenly, he was diving into Lake Rumare after a floundering and crying young Dunmer girl, and then he was struggling to subdue a flare of bright red magic that raged and burned out of control. She gritted her teeth, and her hair stood on end. The feeling was electric. Throughout, she found herself seized by an emotion, a drive so powerful it took her several seconds to recognize what it was.

Courage.

Avielle blacked out.


	10. Perception and Poison

**Author's Note: so I herd u liek disclaimers?**

**Thanks so much for all your reviews, people. :D Really makes my day.**

**Dreamer – M'aiq doesn't have a quest; I just wanted him to cameo, because he's insanely fun. :D As for the foreshadowing – just stay tuned, hehe.**

**Arty – First off, reviews isn't a sign of good writing, it's a sign of a popular topic. While not quite as fangirled as Lucien, Vicente is one of the most popular characters in Oblivion; hence, more people will read my story if they know it's about him. That's all there is to it. And haha, I almost forgot you're naked in the Dreamworld; that was one of the last-minute edits I threw in.**

**Fan and Lovecat – Yay, more reviewers! I hope you enjoy what's coming next.**

**NoSoundComes – Really? Thank you! In all honesty, I thought that section was kind of rushed. I wanted to get a chapter up :P I was falling off the first page.**

**DualKatanas – Haha, M'aiq is amazing. (roflmao, what if Ray tried to off him and met the 'essential tag'?) And I have a cat nibbling at my jeans right now, actually. As for the contract... I'll let you read on and find the significance. :D Also, Avielle may learn something from Henantier's training ground that makes her less pissed off when she wakes up. But yeah, I'd have to say it was a move laden with consequences. Kud-Ei must not know her enough. Silence spells... In my Oblivi-universe, they almost always mean that you can't make a sound, and that your magic is cut off. However, the Dreamworld is a strange place, and the restrictions it imposes upon one are usually mental, as is the entire place, so they're not constrained to typical manners.**

"Wake up! We've got to get out of here!"

Avielle groaned, blinking stars from her eyes. Disoriented wasn't an apt enough way to describe how totally 'out of it' the Breton felt; the entire world was spinning around her. Where was she? Who was talking to her? Why did somebody have a hand on her shoulder, and why was that shoulder bare?

_Oh._

"Get your hands off of me, you perv!" she yelled, swatting Henantier's arm away as she jumped to her feet. And then she crouched down again, trying to cover her less socially displayable facets without much success. "And get me some damn clothes, will you?"

"I can't find any," the Altmer apologized, taking a step back. He'd never meant for his dreams to be so... _awkward._ "If it's any consolation, I'm trying not to look."

Avielle sighed. "Well, you're in your right mind again. No thanks to you. So can you tell me how in Oblivion we get out of this place? Because it's not my idea of a vacation spot, nude men and all. Actually, nude men especially."

"I, ah, err..." Henantier frowned. He could feel it, that elusive knowledge, just hovering outside of his grasp. But whenever he made to reach for it, it slipped away from his mind like mist. Everything was dark and confusing. "I don't remember."

"_What_?" The Breton's eyes nearly popped out. "Look, goldenrod, I didn't get myself nearly killed to hold a civil conversation with you. Well, actually, I did, but right now I really doubt you can help me. I just want to get out of this place. Try again."

"I can't," he apologized. "It's just... I don't know. Like I can see, but I can't see. I feel better than before, but I'm not... complete? Yes, I'm not complete. Something's back, but not all of it."

"I should have known," the girl muttered, half to herself, gazing at the ceiling. "Only one insane test wouldn't be nearly enough. It never is." She looked down, back to Henantier. "So you know a way out of here, but you can't remember it because your mind has more holes in it than a block of cheese. I found your courage. What else are you missing? I don't really want to spend any more time in this place, so get to work."

"I..." The Altmer closed his eyes, his brow furrowing. "I don't really know. Something. Maybe more than one something, maybe not. I feel like... I can see, but I can't. Like I'm blind and I'm not blind, like everything's swaying and falling and doesn't make sense. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No, but I do understand that you're completely useless."

"Sorry."

"You should be."

"If it's any help..." The Altmer hesitated. "When you came back here – out of nowhere, I might add – and I started to comprehend things again, I noticed that this giant door was by that wall, and then it just disappeared. There was this jolt, and another door appeared where that one window used to be. There's something written on it, but I can't understand it, and when I tried to open it, I couldn't."

Avielle followed his pointing finger and saw that there was indeed another door, past the ghoulish alchemy displays and toppled shelves. She made her way over to it. It was wooden, unlike the first one, but the same bold scarlet letting displayed 'Perception' on the planks. Well, if that was another thing the moron was missing, it would make sense. But this was his own mess, and why was she doing all the hard work?

She tested the handle. "It's not locked," she noted. "Why don't you get your own mind back, make yourself useful?"

Henantier looked surprised. "Well... all right." She stepped out of the way, and he made to open the door. However, the knob wouldn't turn an inch in his hand, no matter how hard he pulled. "Are you sure it's unlocked? It seems stuck to me."

The Breton rolled her eyes, exhaling an exasperated sigh. "The fact that a girl is stronger than you is pretty pathetic, Altmer. Let me try."

She turned the knob and heaved the door open with much more strength than necessary – she was getting frustrated with this whole rescuing business. Were the victims always supposed to be so unutterably _helpless_? It was almost impossible to imagine that Henantier would ever be capable of aiding her.

Unfortunately for her, she pulled with so much force that she overbalanced and staggered, right into the blackness of the Test of Perception.

0o0o0

Vicente's poison was good for slipping into glazes, sauces, and sweet things, where its flavor would easily mingle.

Sadly, this did not include eggs, which Vicarus Astellus appeared to enjoy for breakfast. Sithis would have to be patient.

Vicente had expected Astellus to take a sweetroll, since a batch of them had been filling the kitchen with their honeyed aroma when he'd snuck inside, but he hadn't poisoned them simply because he had no idea which the noble would take. Having everyone in the house die of the Blight at the same time would rather kill the illusion he was trying to create. The Watch could be incredibly stupid at times, but some ruses were just pushing it.

However, he'd managed to find an extremely useful item before a servant had headed for the kitchen, forcing him to leave and hide. More specifically, it was a menu of sorts, telling the hired help what to cook for the day and what ingredients to use. Everyone was having soup for lunch, which was hardly in his favor. Considering this was probably served from one tureen, he'd have to cross that off his list of possibilities, lest he poison everybody. But dinner was the Night Mother's luck upon him; everyone in the household was having roast boar, but apparently Astellus was fond of a special gravy that none of the other diners wanted. In other words, he could slip in the poison as something was being prepared, rather than having to wait until dinner was served – which could be very challenging, even with invisibility.

He hadn't taken the list with him; it would have been suspicious if the servant had known to expect it, and if they hadn't, they might have prepared something else. Vampirism lent him a nearly photographic memory, if he chose to focus on things. Simply knowing that the sauce he had to poison contained hints of shein was enough for him. He'd be able to scent it out when need be, and that would be that.

The vampire watched from a second-floor closet. From the dust it had gathered – Vicente was glad that his kind had no compulsion to sneeze – he derived that it was seldom used. It was close to the center of the house, and almost directly above the kitchen. A perfect vantage point if walls did not deter you. He leaned back, shifting into as comfortable a position as he could, letting his immanent life detection monitor the house for him.

Over time, Vicente relaxed into a passive-alert state. He was at the ready if anything were to happen, but with his location secure and the house's occupants milling about so predictable, he was able to sit back and consider other things besides his task at hand. His mind began to wander – first to what Lucien was playing at, seeing how straightforward his contract seemed to be going, and then from the topic of Lucien, it chanced upon a figure whom he had not given much thought to in quite some time.

He would have thought, after that last explosive confrontation and five months of separation, that he would have been able to put her out of his mind. But the fact remained that his curiosity, so rarely piqued, had latched onto her. Who was she, to think that she could challenge the hands of Sithis himself? She was a paradox, both infuriating and mesmerizing; Vicente had met plenty of the the zealous-but-overconfident-and-unprepared type in the Brotherhood, but she was somehow different from them. And the irony that he'd saved her – he, an assassin – when she had a fair enough reason to completely loathe him. Yes, everything about her was a paradox. He recalled her face from the shadows of Skingrad Castle Hall, with the torchlight gilding the vertices of her face. Had those too-round cheeks thinned out a shade, giving her angled features their potential regality? Did that chestnut hair still flow down her back like a dark waterfall, and were her eyes wide and fearful, or did they blaze with that entrancing blue determination?

Had he been in a position to make a sound, he would have sighed. What was he thinking? Vampires were generally not successful romantics. Then again, he supposed that with the lack of variety he generally saw, any woman lacking fur or a tail would start to look good. Romance within the Brotherhood itself was rare, seeing as the ties of the Family were very close to the bonds of a true nuclear family, and even closer feelings definitely came with their fair share of awkwardness. That sort of love was something Vicente hadn't felt since before his death, and he was fairly sure that he wasn't feeling it now. The girl was simply... interesting. Enormously. It was a shame she was so ill-disposed towards the Brotherhood, as he would have enjoyed somehow recruiting her and honing her poorly-tapped talents into fine tools of Sithis's holiest art.

He wondered if she was still following her vengeful, ill-starred calling, or if the Void had finally stolen her without him to fend it off. She certainly seemed to have a penchant for death.

_Hmm_, he mused, absentmindedly watching the glows of the living wandering around him. _I wonder where she is now?_

0o0o0

Darkness. Pure, utter darkness. Avielle couldn't see a thing; she blinked frantically, but there was nothing obstructing her eyes. There was just nothing to see. Something ticked and clanged in the background, a jarring rhythm that reminded her of an off-beat clock.

She got to her knees, putting out a hand to feel around. There was nothing ahead, so she slowly crawled forward, unwilling to stand up, lest she lose her balance or run into something. She twisted her head around in desperation. Was there _anything_ to see?

There was, apparently, as she looked to the left. A vaguely familiar ball of blueness glowed and spun to her left, lending no light to her surroundings, but quite visible in its own right.

Relief nearly overwhelmed her. It made sense that courage would have a hard test – after all, it was courage, and that meant being courageous or something. Perception was just seeing, feeling, noticing. All she had to do was get her bearings in the darkness and crawl through the abyssal lighting to reach his perception. Much more straightforward, even if initially frightening. She turned towards the floating sphere and began to make her way forward.

She managed to travel about three meters towards the ball before the ground vanished under her elbows, and she pitched forward with an involuntary scream, barely managing to keep from falling on her face. Avielle scrambled backwards, her heart racing. What _was_ that? Her cry echoed eerily in the cavernous darkness. As steadily as she could, she reached a hand forward, feeling where the stone dropped away. She felt her way down, trying to feel where the chasm ended. Soon, her entire arm up to the shoulder was under the gap, and no bottom was in reach. If she leaned in any farther, she would have fallen over, so she pulled back, frowning.

Did she have to take a blind leap and hope that there was something underneath? She almost did, but some nagging instinct in the back of her mind spoke against it. She needed to get her mind out of the last test. Such a thing would have made sense for courage, but now she was retrieving perception, and what she was _percieving_ was that there was nothing there, save a dead end and a fall. To continue forward would be denying perception, and probably failing the trial. Was this some sort of maze in the dark? She felt among the ledge, but couldn't find any stretch of ground beyond that she could continue on.

_I'm going about this the wrong way_, Avielle realized. _I've got to be missing something_.

She backed away cautiously from the gap, craning her neck around to see if there was anything else visible, anything else to give her a hint. If she had her magic, she could bring up a light to illuminate the entire blasted test. As she groped in the darkness, a dark thought dawned on her – a thought that she'd only touched upon once before, in another dark place where death had grasped for her.

Without her magicka, she was helpless. Useless. Perhaps even nothing.

Had she learned nothing, over these past few months? She wanted to be able to save herself. It was darkest irony that she'd come to rely on the aid of one of her deepest enemies. She remembered the vampire's apathetic, even icily proud face as he'd admitted to being a murderer, the grace at which he'd danced with his glass blade, the whispered comment in her ear. _And please, do take better care of your life._

Even if she wanted his help – which she dearly did _not_ – Vicente was hardly going to appear in the middle of somebody's nightmare to save her. When she'd told him to get out of her life, he'd surprisingly obeyed, leaving her with an entangling request-slash-threat – one that she'd followed out of some scrap of twisted gratitude she'd felt towards him for saving her life twice over. With his secrets kept, she could lay those debts to rest and continue on with her mission, and she'd never seen him again. She had nobody to rely on but herself, and only when stripped of her metaphorical crutch did she realize that she barely could walk. She was completely at the mercy of Henantier's dreams.

And Avielle did not want to be at _anyone's_ mercy.

A flame appeared from nowhere, casting a small ring of shadows scurrying. Her eyes widened. Away from the ball of light, and closer to where she'd started out, was a torch. She wasn't sure how she'd missed it before, unless it had only just been lit.

Gingerly, she crawled towards it, very careful to feel the stone before she moved. There were no more chasms, and soon she was pulling herself up to her feet, grasping the torch by its handle.

The first thing she noticed was that the dream-torch was hardly comparable to the torches she'd known in the real world. The flame burned, merry and bright, but it barely illuminated the ground beyond her feet. Closer to starlight than firelight, its wan light was mordantly fitting for a nightmare's highest point. It was much better than nothing, though. With the light in her hand, she slowly walked back to to the gap, lowering her torch to the ground to see how deep the pit had stretched.

She remembered how she'd considered jumping down it, and she flinched.

There was nothing there, just an abyss that stretched down into impenetrable blackness.

She could see Henantier's perception taunting her. It was bobbing above a dimly lit podium, a circular platform, but the chasm stretched between her and it. So how was she supposed to get to it?

She held the torch as high as her arm could reach, trying to cast the light as wide as it would go. There it was – directly behind her was a bumpy, almost stair-like path that twisted and wound into the darkness. There were no rails, just two flanking abysses. But if there was one thing about the Dreamworld that she'd learned, it was that there was no way out other than forward.

By the Nines, if only she could manage to trap the Dark Brotherhood in this place...

As she carefully made her way across the jagged path, she noticed small, clear crystals were suspended in midair. They winked in the wan firelight, shimmering along diamond-cut facets. They looked oddly familiar, although the Breton couldn't quite place where she'd seen them before. What _were_ they, anyways?

That became clear very quickly; Avielle, who was looking up rather than down, stumbled as her foot hit a slightly raised bump on the stone. The next thing she knew, all of the gems were glowing an ominous red. The frost spell they carried was so powerful that water vapor around them condensed, clouds of crimson in their bloody light. Avielle swore – these things were usually found in Ayleid traps. Get too close and set off a trigger, and one of them would launch a spell at you.

In this case, though, it was closer to... twenty. That she could see. And the humming was getting louder.

Avielle ran.

She darted across the erratic walkway, her torch threatening to go out as it flickered in the slipsteam. One by one, the traps launched their frost spells, creating a trail of scorch and ice on the ground behind the fleeing Breton. One bolt passed so close to her that she felt the beginnings of frostbite on her neck. Such a dash caused her to throw caution to the wind, and more than one time she stepped upon another press plate, causing the lines of cursed crystals to fire at her repeatedly. Avielle was not an athlete, and it was sheer providence that she managed to stay even inches ahead of the onslaught, lungs burning and limbs aching.

Eventually, she reached a circular platform where no more of the Ayleid traps were visible. She took a moment to catch her breath, panting as she rested her palms on her knees. Looking back at how thin and rutted that path had been, she was amazed she hadn't fallen off in her mad scramble. The entire surface was slick with ice now, and wouldn't be possible to traverse even if she'd wanted to. Rubbing her frozen neck, she glanced around. She was farther from her goal than she'd started from, and she hoped that it hadn't meant she'd gone the wrong way.

There was no space for second-guessing, so she turned her attention to the next stretch. She was at the beginning of a disc-shaped walkway, with the center missing; in essence, there were two arced paths that curved away and then rejoined at the end. Unwilling to run into another trap, she glanced up, lifting her torch. It was good that she had. Something like a network of bones were suspended in the air, with blades like enormous cleavers hanging under them. Even as she watched, the ones nearest to her began to swing, deadly pendulums dancing back and forth.

...Yep. Not that she needed to check, but this was definitely proof that she was in a nightmare. Giant suspended knives, _check_. The last thing Avielle wanted to do was navigate around them, especially when she had no room to dodge to the side. But if she sat around and waited, a giant triple-headed sweetroll with claws and an axe would probably appear from behind and start hacking at her neck. Or something.

She allotted herself about thirty seconds to do what mages did best – observe and hypothesize. What she came up with was that the cleavers swinging on the right-hand side seemed to be a hint faster than their counterparts on the other side.

She waited until the first blade to the left had just passed, inhaled a long draught of air, and darted past. It was actually fairly easy, although her heart pounded madly. The blade hadn't even reached its peak height before she made it through, and defined well by the feeble torchlight, the swinging axes were fairly distanced from each other. She had ample room to rest. Avielle made it past the other two in a similar fashion, feeling somewhat more confident but still quite wary.

The path turned a bit before coming out onto a squared-off plateau of brown stone. Recognising it as a probable source of traps, Avielle lowered her torch and investigated the ground without actually touching it.

Unfortunately, this stroke of genius was offset by the fact that the fire's heat set off the gas vents now clearly visible, scattered amongst the ground.

_Crap._

Avielle didn't have much time to decide on a course of action. The platform wasn't very large, as she could already see the end of it. If she waited for the traps to run out, it would be easier to travese... but this was a dream – what if they didn't? And it was bound to spread. Already, her skin was beginning to prickle. Waiting around could be deadlier than trying to cross.

Moving as quickly as she could seemed to be becoming a defining aspect of this test; she inhaled a deep breath, already laced with minute amounts of poison, and dashed through the spreading greenish haze. It burned her body like acid, dilute as it was, and the small amounts she'd breathed made her want to choke. Definitely nasty stuff; when she reached the edge of the platform and no more vents could be seen, she kept on running, disregarding all possible traps, until the poison was far behind her and she could hold her breath no longer.

She fell to her knees, choking and spitting. Avielle had tripped some similar traps in old forts and ruins, but she'd never seen any gas as vicious as this one. Even after she had gotten back on her feet, her legs were shaking, and a rash had begun to appear on her skin. She halfheartedly tried to summon a healing spell, and was unsurprised when no effect would come. Oh, to have magicka again...

Avielle set off again, this time with a slight limp. The torch was starting to sputter, having been badly affected by the chemicals, but for once, the curving, jagged path was clear. Bright crystal formations glowed in the air; they looked benign enough, but the Breton didn't take a single step without checking for pressure plates or other suspicious giveaways beneath her feet.

Luck seemed to toy with Avielle, however. It often kept her on the verge of disaster, tossing her into danger and pulling her back at the last possible second, playing with her like a child's trinket or a badly-written story. And so fate decided that the one time Avielle would look away from the ground – chiefly, to inspect another circular platform, this one with arched walls like wayshrines encircling its width – would be the time where her foot came down on a bronze plate that just happened to be there.

She stumbled, swearing as she slipped and tried to regain her balance. Henantier's perception definitely seemed closer than it had before, but she just wanted this damn thing over with. The thought that there might even be _more_ tests in Henantier's Playground of Dementia was wrangling with her extremely starved and vestigial optimism.

She stumbled and swore _slightly more_ when a conveniently located cluster of boulders decided to stop floating and held a competition to see which one could land on her.

This wasn't hard enough to run away from, except that Avielle had a tendency to not pay attention while she was fleeing. And so she ended up landing on another pressure plate as she sidestepped a chunk of falling rock and jumped forward towards the path. This walkway was not curved and jagged like the others, but a straight shot forward, consisting of tall square pillars.

That were trapped, of course.

If she'd missed the second plate, she could have taken a leisurely stroll towards her goal. As it was, the second Avielle's foot touched down upon the first pillar, it shuddered and dropped at an alarmingly fast rate.

The Breton shrieked and dashed for the next one, not a second too late – the first block had crumbled into the darkness. The second pillar didn't waste any time following suit, nor the third. Her skin burned, her arms were badly scraped, and her stomach felt like it had relocated itself somewhere near her feet, As an added bonus, after the fourth, the entire complex seemed to tire of waiting, and _all_ of the pillars started to fall.

And while everything else collapsed down into the abyss, the element of Perception shone on tranquilly, straight ahead.

Something snapped in Avielle's mind. A primal survival instinct buried beneath years of study and logic reared its head and struck. No time to think. No time to second-guess. It had all come down to this; a frantic dash to see whether life or death would prevail. The pillar she stood on was sinking rapidly, and she leapt for the next one and the next, each giving way faster under her weight. Fatigue meant nothing. Pain meant nothing. Death meant nothing. She wouldn't _allow_ it to mean anything.

Once upon a time, Avielle had panicked and thought _SweetMarai'mgoingtodie _as she watched the world break into pieces around her.

Now, her heart was stronger, her resistance clear. She had _learned_, and death could go and do something anatomically unlikely with itself if it wanted to screw with her.

_I'm not going to die just yet._

She jumped, reaching for the suspended cyan star with outstretched fingers as the world beneath her feet fell away.

Terror, gasping for breath, a pounding heart... and then blue light enveloped her.

For one moment, Avielle was overwhelmed by the complete _clarity_ that swallowed her up. Bliss and contentment mingled with shock and realisation in a startling and incomprehensible sensation. It was like being blind for one's entire life, and then seeing the sun for the first time. Awe and wonder, and beyond that, _enlightenment._ One second to see and understand everything, one second to comprehend the absolutism of nothing; to see the Truth...

...and it was all gone before she had a chance to remember a modicum of it, leaving her alone to pass out. Which she did.

0o0o0

For something that never changed its pace, time certainly did have an aptitude for appearing to distort itself.

The vampire was old enough that decades could pass him by like blurs, and yet the eight hours he passed waiting in a nobleman's cobwebbed closet seemed to stretch on forever. Perhaps he was suffering from a rare lapse of boredom, or perhaps it was omnipresent thirst starting to stir again from its latent state. He hadn't fed since a quick nip in Cheydinhal to hold him over for the journey across Cyrodiil, and while he was very good at keeping his darker half subdued, it was much easier to keep down if he had something to keep himself busy with. Which he did not. Watching a household's worth of life essence flitting idly around him for the _entire time _hadn't helped it much.

In any case, he was grateful when the old grandfather clock in the foyer rang a tremulous four, and the servants hurried to the kitchen to prepare Astellus's final feast.

He let his Hunter's Sight fade away as he slid out of the closet like shadow given form. Glowing eyes tended to draw attention; from his experience, the radiance would actually shine under his hood. Not that he was wearing it, however. If being seen trespassing was no worse than being called out for a vampire, then he'd rather face capture with unobscured vision.

Besides, spotting everyone from rooms away took all the excitement, the... _intensity_ out of it.

The vampire may not have been seeking out prey to fall upon with tooth and claw, but he was hunting now, and the simple spread of death by his hand was enough to satiate that innate carnal nature. He spent his days and nights signing contracts and patiently teaching his apprentices the arts of shadow. It was ironic that among assassins, he was a gentleman; alone was when he could let the beast surface in his mind.

It wasn't that he was allowing it to _control_ him, no... He would never demean himself as to willingly allow the animal to dominate the man. He'd struggled powerfully in the beginning, they all had – the rarity of civilized vampires was a testament to the difficulty of re-mastering the self. It was just that _bloodshed_ seemed to be as much a need as blood itself, if much more controllable, as Molag Bal's violence spilled over into his curse; when death called, his crueler nature stirred, and why repress it if repression meant that it would flare up again when it had no venues to answer its calling?

Two maids were cleaning at the base of the stairs, the exquisite throb of life beating in their necks. The beast crouched and snarled, while the master tightened his grip on its leash until it responded to his will.

_Not yet._

Vicente edged along the wall, shifting his weight so that the aged floorboards underfoot would not creak. He kept his arcane aptitude in his fingers, ready to 'embrace the shadows', as one vampire had once described it. Indeed, his Embrace of Shadows did feel different than a typical invisibility enchantment; Vicente had once described the particular ability of the Dark Gift as the Night Mother's arms around him. He was quite ready to call forth that protection if regular stealth failed him. But he was as shadow itself, and not one of the girls spared him a glance.

Through the deserted dining hall, skirting around the doomed nobleman himself in his sitting room... Eventually, he found himself concealed between one of the kitchen's open doors and a corner. The little bottle of death clinked quietly in his pocket as he finally lifted his hand and let the cool sanctuary of invisibility shroud him. The warm and aromatic kitchen seemed an ironic place for the seeds of death to be planted, but in the same time, that was the sheer beauty of his craft.

Three minutes was more than enough time to deliver his cargo. A shimmy here, a step there, and the phantom had crossed the crowded room without brushing up against anyone. The smell of Morrowind brandy guided him towards a tureen of half-finished gravy; the chef turned around to sneeze, and nobody saw a bottle tip some orange liquid into the bowl before vanishing into the folds of an invisible cloak. The beast howled and the master crowed with it – that gleam of life which was forbidden to him would flee another mortal shell before the day was over.

Vicente's work was done, and much too easily, at that, given his still-lingering suspicions. He was free to go, as free as a sunny sky left him, but he was quite meticulous. Things were always capable of going wrong; there was no such thing as a perfect plan. He preferred to see his work brought to fruition, to make certain that the Night Mother's task was not left incomplete.

And for that reason, the vampire waited.


	11. Turbulence

**Author's Note: I haven't turned into Bethesda since I last updated, in case you were wondering. They still don't own Avielle, though. Thanks to all my reviewers! Seeing my review count go up is exciting. :D**

**Dreamer – I can't wait until they meet again too, because it'll be interesting... Also, while I love that line, it's not mine – I stole it from The Mortal Instruments, which has some of the wittiest dialogue I've ever seen.**

**Arty – None of the tests are hard for us, as a player (maybe patience) – but we know what to expect, can't feel pain or weakness, and have a reload button if we screw up, don't we? (Not even considering godmoding...) And the whole conflict of rationality versus instinct is why vampires and werewolves as characters have always enthralled me. With Avielle, this is eventually going to be Vicente/OC, and at this point I figured she'd randomly crop up in his mind. Finally, I raeg ur lack of Vicente. :'( It was like whhhyyyyyyy**

**Reva – Heh, I've done that before. And Avielle needs some personal growth – I don't generally like overpowered OCs, but I don't like useless characters either. Writing those two ends of the spectrum is easy, and the real mettle of an author is how well he or she can create a balanced character. I want to eventually develop her into a character that would be able to lend actual support to Vicente; right now, placing them together is like juxtaposing a lion and a mouse.**

**DualKatanas – Ironically, I have more fun writing Vicente's parts than Avielle's. It's probably because I have more license with his contract; with the Dreamworld, I can't end it when I want to, because I'm writing an already established thing. I'm redoing the quest with an Avielle character as I write, so I know what the 'real' quest is like. I deviate somewhat. Bahaha, Avielle and Gorgoth... imagine that, lol. She'd get so pissed off at him, and he'd either be completely uninterested in her tantrum or getting mad enough to do something to scare her witless. See the aforementioned juxtaposition of mouse and lion, heh.**

Once again, Avielle found herself unconscious and naked in Henantier's nightmarish bedroom. Which was not a position she liked to find herself in.

She _really_ did not appreciate it when Henantier grabbed her by the shoulders and hoisted her up from the ground, gabbling frantically about needing to escape, and now. Her reply was courteous and polite, consisting of a swift scissor-kick into the offending mer's area of general male weakness. Basic, but effective. He staggered back, his babbling giving way to a stream of curses.

"Stop being so... so _touchy_, you Ninesdamned freak!"

Henantier was still hunched over in the exquisite agony that only males can experience, and his apology was barely audible.

Avielle rolled her eyes, lifting a hand to rub her shoulders where he'd gripped them. Men, ugh. _By Oblivion, some clothes would really come in handy right about now._

Too quickly, he had recovered, and was back to his frantic pleas. "We've got to get out of this place!"

"Brilliant idea!" Avielle exclaimed, voice laden with enough sarcasm to freeze magma. "Let's put that head of yours to work. How would you suggest going about that?"

Henantier frowned. He didn't want to think, he wanted to get _out._ Now that he could finally see straight, this place was doubly hostile, and every moment spent in it felt like something was crawling over his skin. "Find some more doors?" he suggested blankly, wishing that she would stop talking and get on with it. "I don't see any, but I think I heard something when you came back."

"Uh-huh," the Breton continued. "What a breakthrough! All right, get to work. Shoo. It's my turn to relax in this vacation home."

"The doors won't open for me," the mer noted. "I think it's got to be you that does it."

This made Avielle want to scream. She resisted the desire for about five seconds, which was probably a personal record.

"Let me get this straight," she seethed. "You had to go and make some morbidly-difficult-to-escape nightmare training ground. While in there, you lost your mind and scattered it throughout loads of deathtraps. But now you just get to sit around doing nothing while _I_, who didn't even want to come here_, _have to make my way through your own creations that are constantly trying to kill me, just to get the hell out of here?"

"When you put it like that..." Henantier considered. "Yes, that's pretty much right."

Avielle reached for the straps on her back to take out her staff, only to remember that she didn't have straps on. Or a staff. So she settled with planting a fist in his face. He topped backwards and hit the ruined bed, groaning. She snarled quietly to herself, pacing around the room. Why couldn't Kud-Ei have come here herself? Doors, doors... she couldn't find any more on the second floor, but she remembered the set of stairs nestled in the corner. They creaked threateningly under her weight, looking nearly rotted through, and she scampered down them as quickly as her fatigue-laden legs would carry her. They didn't break, although none of the boards looked like they were going to last much longer.

The foyer-cross-hallway was dark and uninviting, completely unlit save for some of the ambient red glow that came from the floor above. And what she could see was not to her liking. The bowls that had held strawberries in reality were filled with piles of grinning skulls, and the door to the house itself was rickety, nearly like a wooden gate – and bearing a word that she really, _really_ didn't like.

Yes, Henantier's current crazed ramblings were definitely a sign of a deficiency in patience, but... Patience? Somehow, it was even more forbidding to her than a test titled 'Slow and Painful Death'. Forget necrophiliacs and Polus. She'd trade any of those past assignments for this. Gladly. Why had she even needed to talk to Henantier, anyway? Nothing was worth all of this crap.

But what else could she do, besides sit and rot in a false reality? She twisted the knob, yanked the door open, and stormed into the blackness.

0o0o0

It took close to another two hours for dinner to finally be served.

The vampire was waiting in the wine cellar, cleaning the dirt and lint off his cloak; he brushed at it absentmindedly, having worn his usual dapper garments underneath. How amusing that while the man of the house was about to die upstairs, the assassin was still present, calmly dusting his clothes. He chuckled softly to himself.

Watching with life detection, Vicente couldn't see the banquet itself, only the ten or so people seated around a rectangular table. The poor guests would have a shock tonight, indeed... but until the host partook in his deadly dining, they would certainly enjoy the food. Its smells wafted to him even from where he stood, and they were indeed glorious, enough even to send his mind a wistful pang. Vampires couldn't handle 'real' food; Vicente enjoyed a glass of wine from time to time, and most beverages were all right, but trying to actually _eat_ anything would make him quite ill. And even knowing some of it was poisoned, what the guests were enjoying upstairs smelled extremely enticing. The boar was trimmed with just the right amount of spice, the gravies were rich, and he could also derive the scents of freshly baked bread, sugared fruit, and a sauteed vegetable medley from the general dinner aroma.

There seemed to be a fair amount of milling around, illuminated hands reaching out and in as diners regularly did. After some time in this fashion, Vicente began to worry that the poison hadn't took, or hadn't been served at all. He drew the half-full bottle from his cloak and shook it once, watching it swish merrily in the deep shadows. He'd definitely used enough to poison the whole tureen...

Which was probably why one of the globes of light above was fading rapidly, falling forward as it jerked and flailed and fizzled out.

Ah. There it was. Vicente straightened up, dusting his hands off automatically on his trousers as if wiping them free of blood. It was a masterful brew indeed, and one he used sparingly. It was one of his own recipes, and like now, it had never let him down. The glow was certainly the doomed man, because he was located at the head of the table – and most importantly, it looked like an accident, and the contract had been fulfilled to the utmost.

Trying to flesh out the kill from what he could magically see, he imagined Vicarus Astellus falling face-first into his plate, and inwardly smiled. It was quite possible, and he _had _slumped like that when he was fading out. Yes, he'd tell this to Antoinetta when she asked him for the story. The girl would find it very funny; she loved poisons and the myriad ways that they could debilitate you. Perhaps _that_ was the reason behind her nearly sociopathic garlic fetish...

He could hear the screaming and general confusion upstairs, killing his momentary good mood. Screaming grated on his ears like nothing else.

One of the perks of winter, however, was that the accursed sun rose late and set early. Meaning he could get away from this damned cacaphony fairly soon. The clock had rung six not too long ago, so he should be safe... He laid a palm on the trapdoor, feeling for any residual warmth in the wood. Winter's omnipresent chill did render this particular tactic fairly useless, though, and he resorted to milling around for nearly another half hour. It was better to err on the side of caution; lifting the planks and finding the sunset glaring back at him could turn his skin to char in a couple of seconds.

He supposed that he had simply been edgy earlier on, and nothing more. Thirst did have a tendency to stir up mild paranoia, although he'd definitely felt worse with less mental strain... but the contract was over, nothing had gone amiss, and it was time to return home to the arms of his Family. He would have to give Lucien the benefit of the doubt.

He donned his hood and climbed out of the trapdoor, into the light of the freshly risen moon.

And into the sightline of a fair portion of Anvil's city watch, standing in an entrapping semicircle around the basement's opportune exit.

0o0o0

Avielle wasn't sure what to expect with the Test of Patience. After all, patience was not something she ever bothered with, but she figured it just meant waiting around. But Courage and Perception had both tried to kill her, so she had to be prepared for something crazy like that.

What she saw was fairly close to her nebulous sketch of it. She was standing on a grey stone floor, with – surprise – no railing between the plateau and the black abyss that flanked it. Before her was a complicated-looking trap, with floor tiles and two walls spangled with countless suspicious-looking slits. She'd seen smaller versions without the tiles during her brief and unwilling sojourns through old forts, and she knew that those slits would spit out arrows if she tried to cross through them.

But the whole thing was much less extensive than the previous tests, because right beyond that single mechanism was a swirling sphere of scarlet light, sparkling and pulsating in a mesmerizing and somewhat soothing fashion. Her hands clenched with some rush of emotion. It was the Element of Patience, she was quite certain.

_Reality, here I come_.

She almost walked through the trap just to get to it, but something held her back. Something that she really ought to listen to more often, both in dreams and reality.

_Hold up. There's got to be a catch._

The last time she had started out being able to see the element, after all, she'd nearly walked off a ledge and into a never-ending chasm. Not something she ever wanted to think about again.

There was a lectern a few steps away from her, and she crossed over to it. The word 'study' was etched onto it, and she rolled her eyes. She didn't want to study, she wanted to get the damn thing over with. Nevertheless, she slid it open, finding and unfurling a long and thin roll of parchment.

Completely flat, it was nearly as long as she was tall, but only the very top was anything written. There were four rows of four symbols; it was Daedric lettering, she knew, but even translated, it was completely useless. Row by row, it read, "AUCH, AFUL, AAIC, and PAWE" respectively.

"What the hell is this?" she muttered aloud.

People had always told Avielle she needed to be more patient. She'd always told them that they were just too fetching slow. But what constituted being patient, anyways? Just... sitting and meditating, or something? Avielle's philosophy was that people who sat around and waited for things to come to them were saps. But Henantier was not striking her as a glowing example of a model persona, so she figured his Dreamworld had plenty of space for stupid tasks. She probably just had to wait and the trap would go away. Or something. That was torturous enough.

She stood and waited. For about a minute. By that time, the test hadn't dissolved yet and the little ball of glowing light hadn't floated over to her, and Avielle was _not_ going to sit around any longer.

"Screw patience," she muttered, crumpling the large piece of paper in one fist and marching forward into the rows of slitted walls.

Nothing unduly bad happened to her... for about two steps. Then the 'arrows' came, nothing like the spitfire of the rusty contraptions she'd seen in ruined forts. They were streaks of red light that flickered like fire, something she only could observe for a fraction of a second before they struck. She threw her arms up to protect her face not a second too late – the light crashed into her exposed skin, burning severely where they hit. The force of the assault knocked her backwards as if by a giant dismissive hand, sending her flying to where she had stood a minute ago. She hit the stone flat on her back, completely winded.

For about a minute, she lay there, gasping for breath and wondering how a dream could produce such _real_ pain. Henantier had definitely been working outside the lines... It was a shame that such intellect was completely absent when she actually needed it, because he'd created an enormously complex mess and left it entirely to her to clean it up.

But patience and doing nothing did not seem to be synonymous. Picking herself up from the ground, Avielle winced as she regained her balance. She wasn't bleeding, but her arms were a lattice of angry red weals, and her sides throbbed. There was a sudden, jarring grinding sound – she glanced past the trap before her, only to see that the little scarlet ball of Henantier's patience was bobbing _away_ from her, illuminating another, larger trap that formed itself from the darkness.

The piece of paper grew warm in her hands; had she unfolded it, she would have seen a new network of symbols writing themselves below the first.

But Avielle was not paying attention to the crumpled sheet in her hand. She was regarding the growing puzzle with horror, realizing that this was going to be a _long _day.

0o0o0

For the first time in many, many years, Vicente was too shocked to move. For a moment.

_By Sithis, how could they have known I was here?_

He jerked upright, quickly counting their numbers and settling into a defensive stance. At least thirty guards were surrounding him, swords at their sides. Thirty on one! He was phenomenal, but those weren't healthy odds. And he only had a dagger; as faithfully as it had served him, he may as well have been trying to take down a Dremora with a butter knife.

"A little bird tipped us off that you'd be here, assassin," one guard with a heraldic helmet – probably the captain – said flatly. "Lord Astellus's death just minutes ago is proof of that. I don't know why you bothered to hide so long after your vile deed, but it's over, murderer."

The truth struck Vicente like a bolt of lightning, like the sun's cauterizing light.

He'd been betrayed.

Nobody had seen him, nobody had known. Nobody save for the Cheydinhal Sanctuary... and Lucien. But his Family were loyal, were they not? They'd hunted together, trained together, shared stories and laughed and drank together. He'd taught them all, and plenty of times had seen Dark Siblings saving one another on a contract when things ran afoul for one. The Night Mother was their mother, Sithis their father, and Cheydinhal Sanctuary their home, forging a network of bonds so deep that he'd believed to be nearly unbreakable.

Save for the one that was almost never there...

If he'd had a beating heart, it would have raced – one of the benefits of undeath was that it was easy to feign calm even to oneself. As it was, Vicente had made it out of situations far worse than this. He remembered the words of one of clan Quarra's ancients, spoken to a very young and much more naïve Vicente at the time. _Do not allow yourself to fear. Fear is a mortal emotion, fed by their innate knowledge of their own demise. We have no such certainties that we will die; we _are_ their fear. Instead of worry, allow yourself to relax, to analyze your surroundings. You will find, over time, that there is much we can use to our advantage that the living cannot._

And analyze Vicente did. He couldn't muster up his Embrace of Shadows so soon after donning it the first time in the kitchens, and no regular Chameleon or Invisibility spell in his arsenal was nearly as powerful. Thirty guards was hardly all of Anvil's force, but it was still an impressive force to send against one assassin. If he went back into the mansion, he could be trapping himself; more guards could be waiting inside, if they'd been tipped off. Fighting his way out seemed like the most straightforward option. From one thing the head guard had said, it didn't seem like they were aware of his actual nature, besides being Dark Brotherhood. His hood was up, so any move he made with vampirism's unearthly strength would come as a shock, and to his advantage. He'd only have one shot with the element of surprise, but there was much he could do. The city's walls were a few meters before him, but the guards stood between him. He could probably jump over the guards, but to reach the wall from here...?

"Will you come quietly?" another guard asked, nervousness coloring his voice. Silence was one of the best tools of fear, indeed...

"Come quietly?" Vicente laughed softly. "Ah, I fear we may have a slight disagreement here. I'm sorry to disappoint, but I wasn't planning on waving the white flag tonight."

Almost as one, but at the same time disunified, the force of soliders shifted. Clearly, not all of them were seasoned fighters if one not-yet-identified-as-a-vampire was unnerving them so much. Were events not weighing so heavily in his mind, Vicente might have felt sorry for them.

"You know," he began conversationally, "I have to wonder why you didn't bother to _warn_ dear Astellus of his demise if you knew it was coming. The security in the house was nothing special, and I mean that in its entirety. There was no possible way that he was trying to protect himself in the least. In my business, you rather get to _know_ differing levels of the target's belief that somebody is out to get him, and how it shows... and by those standards, I have to say, Vicarus Astellus did not appear to be aware that his number was up at all."

Some of the guards shot each other uneasy glances at this. A couple bore rather ugly expressions, while others just looked uncertain.

Vicente's lips curled up in a humorless and unseen smile. "Unless... after receiving your little tip, you were more interested in catching an assassin than actually saving a doddery old man, and you waived actual justice simply for fear of driving me off initially? I am glad to see that your system is untainted by the all-too-common blemish of corruption, Captain."

"Still your tongue, murderer!" the guard captain snarled, brandishing his sword. Very amusing... he had struck a nerve. But playing mind games here would accomplish nothing.

"Very well then, gentlemen." The vampire nonchalantly slid his hand into his belt, curling thin fingers around the fitted hilt. "Before we begin, I'd like to pass out a warning, if you will; anyone here with wives and children, or those who simply don't want to die yet, should probably leave. It would certainly be more... prudent, and you will thank yourself for it later."

There was much swiveling of heads, but not one soldier moved.

"No?" Vicente sighed. "I'd really rather not see anyone hurt, and Anvil _does_ need a city watch, you know... Ah, well. A noble choice, at least. May Sithis receive you all with honor."

"Do you really think you can take down all of us, criminal scum?" the captain posed. "We've got you surrounded."

The beast stirred within him, and he embraced it.

"Actually," the vampire said serenely, as he lifted his hood and revealed a predator's grin and gleaming eyes that couldn't have been more at odds with his voice, "I do."

And he struck.

The first guard didn't know what had hit him; he'd had one second to comprehend the assassin's face and think _ohgodsavampire_ before a blade had scythed through the middle of his ribcage, severing his lungs, heart, and aorta in one fell swoop. Vicente was in the air before his victim had hit the ground, clearing the circle of startled guards with one powerful leap. He twisted around before landing, so that he met the ground facing his enemies, half-crouched and battle ready. A growl stirred in his throat; from the way he was poised on the ground, with one hand splayed against the stone and one hand gripping his only weapon, he could have been an animal. Except for the smile. No mere _animal_ could show such a sadistic excitement. His red irises were almost glowing, lit up by feral instinct; his fully-extended fangs slid down past his lip.

_Bring it_, he seemed to say.

Swords rasped in their sheathes, and the vampire leapt again, the gilded black blade in his fist flashing with such speed that the air around it seemed to distort. He ducked and weaved and spun, each _snick_ of the ebony slicing flesh tallying another life sent screaming into the Void. From a distance, one could watch Vicente's movements and think him a dancer, albeit one who partnered with death. He spun and whirled like quicksilver, mist, ectoplasm; all of the guard's strikes met nothing but empty air, or a parrying dagger thrust with enough force to send an attacker reeling back. Anvil's Watch was in a panicking chaos, trying to reorganize and deal with the crazed vampire that was actually driving _them_ back towards the house.

But while the vampire Vicente revelled, the rational side of his mind was much less euphoric. As powerful as he was, he was fighting against nearly all of a city's armed force. The Night Mother's luck could only protect him so far... and while his bloodlust honed his fighting instincts, he was warring with the desire to lap the blood from the flagstones – an action both immeasurably undignified and involving a probably fatal drop of his guard. His movements were still faster than mortal eyes could follow, but his mind seemed to be swimming in a reddish haze. What did the Imperials with the swords mean when the streets ran red with such exquisite ambrosia?... As he struggled to break free of the fog, a sword found its mark, the silver slicing through the thin cloth and biting deep into his upper sword arm.

His vision literally pulsed, and he stumbled back, snarling at the flare of pain. The fact that _his_ blood should be running now, thin and black as it trickled down his arm, was unutterably _wrong_. _He_ was the predator, _they_ were the hunters, and it was _their_ blood which provided the life essence he needed to heal himself.

The guard lucky enough to have landed a hit on the vampiric assassin did not have much time to celebrate. He'd barely began a second strike when icy fingers yanked him forward with terrifying strength, while another hand, this one holding a dagger in two digits, forced his head back. The last sensation he ever felt were two stings of pain, and a distorted spiral into the abyss.

The other guards backed away, horror disfiguring their faces as they witnessed the truly bestial side of vampirism draining their cohort dry. It was a clear shot, a golden opportunity to strike, and yet the utter terror of the act paralysed them. It was as the ancient had told Vicente in times long past – He was their fear, the very essence of it. A few of them even turned and fled, heeding the vampire's advice from what seemed like ages ago.

A much less frenetic Vicente straightened up from his hunched position, letting the dead man slip almost lazily from his fingers to join his brethren on the ground. The guards retreated a step further, almost against the back of the house. The vampire eyed them distastefully. The fresh blood in his veins was a gratifying feeling, but he did not like the notion of doing anything out of his control, which the feeding had been. Furthermore, the blood was already healing his wounds, the slash on his arm barely a red weal now, but with his thirst gratified, his strength responded in inverse. Already, he could feel the thrill of power in his limbs diluting.

"Dear me," he mused, sounding as calm as if they were discussing politics rather than fighting for their lives or lack thereof. "I didn't really want to resort to that sort of thing. You could still let me go now, you know, before any more of you lose your lives over such a hapless cause."

"Your life is an insult to the Nines, monster!" one of the guards yelled, his eyes shining wetly. Oh, dear... friends of the recently deceased could be such a bother. "You must die for –"

"Khajiit objects to this!"

_What?..._

Vicente's head swiveled to face the new voice, as did each one of the surviving guards. There was something about the speaker that commanded attention, even if they usually made less sense than a drunken troll. Because the vampire was nearly positive that it belonged to...

M'aiq the Liar was standing imperiously a bit to his left, his fur bristling and one clawed hand waving a pair of calipers around like a club. When he'd arrived, Vicente had no idea, but the startling thing was that the Khajiit eccentric was not threatening him, but the guards.

"Back off, civilian!" one of the soldiers barked.

"M'aiq does not take orders from you," he responded indignantly. "Does not like what Khajiit sees, either! Did guards actually witness Breton commit crime? _No_! So Breton is supposed to get away with it, while you all talk, talk, talk like stupid guards, go away, do not suspect anything. Guards did not witness crime, so are not allowed to apprehend the Breton! You are breaking the game! Guards, guards. Are even worse than children. Bah, children! Do not get M'aiq wrong, he thinks the children are our future. But he does not want them spoiling all our fun."

At this point, nearly all of the guards were either exchanging glances between each other, or staring at the Khajiit. Forget the vampire; a nutcase had joined the party.

"Wait, what?" said one.

The vampire had absolutely no idea why the demented Khajiit from before was helping him out, or _what_ in Sithis's name he was preaching about, for that matter, but he was grateful for the diversion nonetheless. And not about to turn down the only stroke of _deus ex machina_ that he'd probably see.

He leapt for the city wall, nails scrabbling at the stone as he hauled himself up at a pace no human could ever dream of matching. Transfixed by the Khajiit, the guards were a second too slow to react and block his escape. One tried to throw their blade at him, but the heavy longsword didn't even reach the base of the wall. And none of the fools had been armed with bows... Some of Anvil's watch were shouting orders to each other to ready the horses, while others sounded like they were trying to apprehend M'aiq, from the yowling. The vampire didn't spare them a backwards glance. He reached the height of the city wall and let himself fall to the snow simply for speed, absorbing the shock of landing with a grimace. He could endure much worse for his cause. His Family had to be warned.

Vicente vanished into the night.

0o0o0

There were some things that Avielle was simply incapable of learning. Courage, she could muster up if need be. Perception was something intristic to a mage. Survival instinct was buried within every living being, regardless of how deeply it rested, and the will to live was intristic in nearly everyone.

But patience? Forget it.

Henantier was extremely lucky that time in his dreams was completely and utterly distorted, because while a very scratched-up, charred, and _angry_ Avielle appeared on his floor what felt like nine hours later, the actual duration of time that the Breton had spent in the Test of Patience was, while immeasurable, probably a little over a week. In theory, the test was to be completed by crossing the tiles marked with a certain symbol, and triggering the trap would cause another, more complex one to appear between the tested and the element of patience. Avielle, however, was completely irreconcilable with said element, and spent a large amount of the time ranting, throwing things, and trying to plow through the first trap without success.

By the time she had finally deciphered the now completely-covered scroll of arcane symbols, there had been sixteen traps to traverse. She was just about ready to tear the Element of Patience to shreds, but being intangible, it simply enveloped her in a feeling that was completely incomprehensible to her, and deposited her back in the presence of a befuddled and nude mer.

"Arrrrrgghhhh," was her first word upon stirring. It was not a disoriented 'argh', it was an I-am-extremely-pissed 'argh'.

Henantier wisely took a step back as the Breton scrabbled on the ground, found a calcinator, and proceeded to throw it at him. Seeing as she was still on her stomach, her aim was terrible, but the message was clear enough.

"If that wasn't the last test I needed to go through," Avielle growled, getting to her feet, "I am going to..." Here, she fumbled around with an array of threats, but could not find any severe and grisly enough to get her point across. She gave up on that train of thought. "Do you remember how to get out of here now?" the Breton posed, somewhat menacingly.

"No..."

Which was _not_ what she wanted to hear.

"I gave you your damn patience back, so go ahead and try to recall it, will you?"

"I... I can't," he said, slumping into a rickety-looking chair that creaked menacingly under his weight. "I can't do it. What's the point? We'll never get out of here. Oh, I just can't even remember. Why bother trying?"

Avielle resisted the urge to stamp her foot. Either Henantier was a complete sap, or there were _still_ more facets of his mind that were floating around lost in his Dreamworld. She got up, leaving the Altmer to mope. Were there any more doors? Ugh, she wanted her magic back already. She felt vulnerable and weak without it, and the morbid scenery of the mer's mind was not helping her morale.

_Damn Kud-Ei, damn Henantier, damn the Brotherhood, damn... damn the entire fetching world, for Mara's sake!_

She would have beaten him up simply for all he'd put her through, but her limbs felt so pulverized by fiery arrow after arrow that she just didn't feel up to it. As awful as she felt, she wasn't even sure she could handle another beating. She headed back down the stairs, ignoring the groans and shifting of the boards underfoot. To her shock, there was a potion on top of one of the tables, with a note wrapped around it reading 'Heal Yourself'. Nothing else in this damned place had lied to her yet – all attempts on her life had been very straightforward – and she _hurt_, damn it. Without a moment's hesitation, she brought the bottle to her lips and drained it. The relief was immediate. All of the stinging and aching was wiped away in a cool, blissful sensation, like sheets of rain washing it away. The potion-induced happiness was short-lived, soon giving way to the knowledge that if she didn't go through yet another trial of insanity, she'd never see the light of day again. Instead of going to the front door this time, which was just a solid wall now and of no use to her anyways, she headed through the hallway that had led to his living room.

She'd seen more hospitable sitting areas in her time. Most of the furniture was smashed, and the few tables that were intact held grisly experiments – tongs and bones lay scattered across the bloodstained wood, with tar-colored soul gems and strips of _something_'s flesh sitting beside them. She shuddered, scanning the room. In reality, it had been a cozy area, with a bowl of mixed berries and chairs to accompany guests; ample bookshelves had lined the fringes for its occupant's enjoyment.

And there had been a fireplace at the back wall, not an imposing stone slab with the word 'Resolve' inscribed upon it...


	12. Escape

**Author's Note: Do I really have to include a disclaimer about me not owning Oblivion for every chapter? I mean, like, I think you all get the point already. The amount of reviews I got made me glee madly. I mean, six in one day? You guys rock. :D And for all my silent readers, I wanted to take a moment to say I love you too, because there are more than 6 or 7 unique hits on each chapter. You don't have to comment – just knowing I have people actually tuned into my work makes me happier than you can believe. **

**Arty – First off, DO IT. More Vicente from you plz. Okay, to the review of the review... I updated this less than an hour before you reviewed. I had a lot of fun doing Vicente's scenes, and most of Avielle's scenes I had prewritten in class. So it won't usually be this fast. Baww. Onoz at legible, and thanks for pointing that out – fast chapter means errors galore, blargh.**

**Fan – Well, my ongoing joke with M'aiq and the 'game' is that he is taken to be completely insane – and he is, because it's not a game. (He expects everything to go along as 'programmed', but it doesn't) As for the fourth wall, DualKatanas mentioned that too, and I'm not entirely familiar with the term... I'm going to assume it means referencing 'the game' to the point of going outside the story?**

**DualKatanas – Mm, guards don't wear heavy armor, do they? Chainmail is pretty easy to pierce, or so I thought. As for the 30-men-whole-force thing... that is a very good observation. Thank you, and I'll have to change that, because you're completely right. As for what's going on with Lucien, you'll see. And I'm trying to throw people :P I cannot stand when people can completely predict the what-will-happen-next, it makes me feel like I'm failing utterly at foreshadowing or whatnot.**

**Rose – He wasn't in the house, he was outside, and Vicente wasn't using his sight – but yes, M'aiq is a ninja. And thanks! :D**

**Reva – Thank you! I still feel like Vicente isn't Vicente enough, though. :(**

**Dreamer – Glad you liked it! I thought that Patience as it was was a bit too close to Intelligence, which Avielle is fairly decent at – I wanted to capture it as something that would entirely piss her off, heh. As for Vicente – I'm doing my best to make this story something that you _don't_ expect. Because if you know what's going to happen, it's not as fun. **

**Anonymous – Eep, my first anon review! Fiftieth review, too, because I reviewed once and that doesn't count. And Vicente knows that, it's just that he doesn't really have a choice at the time. Thank you, he's my favorite Oblivion character tied with Hassildor, and I really want to do him justice.**

**Carlotta – It's all right, we're all busy. :D And I'm glad you liked M'aiq! I thought I might have been being too silly, like with the necromancer scene, but I want to have this otherwise serious fic have touches of blatant humor. :P**

**NoSoundComes – I never really formed much of an opinion about Henantier, because he doesn't really do much in game. And thank you! :D I always feared that the humor and seriousness didn't blend well, and it really makes me happy that you don't think so.**

**Wow. Lot of reviews, lot of answers. So I'll make this one good. Sorry for the wait getting it up, I really worked on this. I did a -lot- of research on Vicente's first part, making Anvil's surroundings as canonic as possible.**

Avielle had been to the Arena once. She hadn't enjoyed the experience. It was just a bunch of bloodthirsty idiots cheering and screaming as they watched bloodthirsty mega-idiots hack each other to pieces in the sands below. She'd had a terrible seat on the balcony, she was sitting next to an extremely loud Nord with enough alcohol on his breath to intoxicate anyone within fifty miles of him, and she'd lost fifty septims.

However, she'd never been to the part of the Arena in which she stood now.

Bloodstains and gashes marred the wooden floor beneath her, while a grotesque parody of a chandelier hung from an arched stone ceiling, crusted in flakes of dried brown blood. She was at the base of a tunnel... the tunnel in which Arena combatants came from when they fought.

_Shit._

She was not surprised – just understandably demotivated – when a quick pivot revealed that there was no door behind her, but a scraped and bloody boulder, firmly wedged in between her and whatever escape that might have graced this place. But after all, why would the nightmare let her second-guess, let her backtrack and flee? That wouldn't be showing _resolve,_ now, would it?

A cold breeze stung her eyes, making them water. Ironically enough, it smelled of smoke and ash. She peered forward, past the dark gloom and lowered gates and into the Arena. It was definitely a mockery of the real Arena she had seen – the pillars were collapsed, the grate over the pit had rusted through, and piles of burning rubble sent pillars of congealing black struggling up towards hellish, boiling crimson skies. Lightning flashed and thunder roared, although she could not see where it hit.

Avielle was not really feeling much resolve. It was rather hard to, in her case. Every child knew that in the Arena, gladiators fought one another, save the Grand Champion; Agronak Gro-Malog was too widely renowned for anyone to even try their mettle against him, so he satisfied the masses once a week butchering Cyrodiil's wildlife. Kynareth would not honor the Orc in death, she had noted once after listening to one fan with a gravity-defying haircut ramble on about the Gray Prince's awesomeness or something. Immature Bosmers aside, the fact remained that fighting in the Arena involved some skill and experience if you didn't want to die before the gates opened.

So how in fetching _Oblivion_ was Avielle, unarmed, Silenced, and bloody _naked_ supposed to fight?

Well, there was a large Ayleid repository with the barely-legible red words 'Prepare Yourself' a couple steps in front of her, which probably was worth checking out...

She slid the lid off with a harsh grating noise that jarred her ears. Reaching in blindly, she nearly cut her hand on something sharp, and swore loudly. Damn it, it was so _dark_... she blinked a few times to adjust her eyes to the gloom, because there was no way she'd be able to drag the heavy casket closer to the light. Once her eyes would function, she could make out a variety of objects inside.

Firstly, she noted an array of weapons. There was a bow, a dagger, and a warhammer. Avielle had absolutely no idea how to shoot, and no desire how to learn to. Simply picking up the warhammer would have probably dislocated both of her arms, so she had to settle for the dagger. It was identical to her one in the real world; small and silver, it fit into her palm rather neatly. But she'd never really relied on it, knew only rudimentary tactics for using it, and besides, it looked rather sad and pathetic now, in the face of the Dreamworld's violent tests.

There were also two sets of armor; iron and leather. While Avielle would have felt happier marching towards possible death wearing a thick shield, a few minutes and a lot of swearing made it painfully clear to her that she did _not_ know how to put the damn stuff on. She settled for the leather. It didn't look very durable, but it was flexible, and belatedly she realized that the set did count as clothes. For which she was extremely grateful.

Feeling half apprehensive and half awkward, the Breton walked through the tunnel and into the icy gale, trying to ignore the bloody ruts in the floor. It almost looked as it somebody had been _dragged_...

_Don't think about it. It's only a dream. Only a dream..._

But certainly the most realistic dream she'd ever experienced. She mounted the steps slowly, feeling some intangible tension make itself palpable and press down on her shoulders.

The wrought-iron bars were not completely unlike those of the University she'd left so many months ago, although they were chipped and rusted. They yawned towards her like a grinning mouth full of broken, rotted teeth, and it was not without a shiver than she passed through them, feeling unutterably like prey. The leather on her skin felt more like modesty than protection, and would the little sliver of silver defend her against an Altmer's darkest nightmares?

It was the smell, yes, the smell was the worst of it. Fire and char hung in the cold air, and something worse than that, something she knew, something that had permeated her bad dreams dating all the way back to her childhood.

Burnt flesh.

Avielle shut her eyes, trying to push away the panic that was clouding her mind. _I've fought like hell three times before this. Each time I felt like I was going to die, and I ended up pulling through. So get your act together, because if you don't make it out of this damned place alive, then Mother put herself through hell for nothing._

Her blue eyes reappeared from behind the lids. Barely a second later, they really _saw_ what was behind the other gate, and her breath caught in her chest.

Oh, hell. She wasn't facing a Pit Puppy or whatever they called the Arena rookies. Forget Courage. Forget Perception. Forget... hell, forget Patience, it hadn't tried to kill her as outright as this! This sort of challenge was the sort of thing that only the Gray Prince took on... and not everyone would bet in the legend's favor, despite his apparent invulnerability.

The gates behind Avielle clamped shut with a nasty, taunting screech, while the ones opposite her creaked open more slowly, mockingly releasing the tools of her demise.

Clouds of breath condensed outside the bearded muzzles, furious plumes of steam sent out into the frigid air. Hooves stamped and scraped at the bloody ground, and bloodlust shone in two sets of beady animal eyes. A bellow escaped one mouth, revealing broken tombstone teeth; the thick tongue glistened like a fat snake within, wet with saliva. Light glinted off of two battle axes, both raised, gleaming green glass like another nightmare she knew all too well. But that figment of a bad dream and its viridian sword had been swift and courteous, genteel rather than savage, and most of all, he'd been fighting on _her side_.

The minotaurs charged.

0o0o0

No living man or mer can hope to outstrip a horse on foot. Even beastfolk cannot hope to compete with a true beast in a test of all-out speed. Mages have worked for centuries developing enchantments that would allow Tamriel's races to match the gifts of Kynareth's kingdoms, but they can never create more than a pale shadow of them. Therefore, if a group of guards is chasing a man on horses, the man would surely be overtaken no matter how much of a head start they had.

However, if they were able to match that speed, they would be able to utilize a number of advantages. A horse is simply an animal – there were exceptions to this, of course, but none of them are subject to the current situation. An equine can easily be spooked or tricked, and it has no mind of its rider's urgency. It does not care if it is saving the Empire or delivering a message; it will not try to press itself for things it does not comprehend. It cannot change direction as quickly or errantly as a person, it cannot fit through thin areas a man could slip through, and if it happens to pull a shoe or fracture a leg, it cannot go on.

It was for reasons like this that Vicente Valtieri was quite content with his state.

It was hard enough for the guards to push their steeds after him to begin with. They may as well have been asking rabbits to chase a fox; the horses knew the scent of a predator, and their agitated neighs and the 'Steady, boy' calls of the legion had still been ringing in his ears as he hurried through the rocky coastal plains to the southwest. He chose west because he had to get to Cheydinhal as quickly as possible, and south because they wouldn't be expecting it. Almost all fugitives from Anvil took to the north, because the wooded area offered more cover than open ground. From his experience, Cyrodiilic guards – forget Morrowind, that had not been a fun experience – did not know how to take on vampires at all, and by extension, how they would behave.

The white stone ruins of an old fort – Fort Strand, he believed, but he wasn't sure – stretched out before him. He couldn't stop yet, though, so early in the night, and having put so little distance between the horses and himself. He could still hear the clatter of hooves in the distance and swore softly under his breath. They hadn't fallen for his little ruse after all; or worse, perhaps they'd actually seen him. He spared a backwards glance, but couldn't see anything but the white hills rising up behind them. The day had been unusually warm, and for that, Vicente was impossibly lucky. The top layer of snow had melted and refrozen into glistening, hard-packed ice, which left no incriminating footprints.

Well, if they'd picked up on his reverse psychology, then he may as well revert to the original advantage. He called up a spell to fortify speed, grimacing at the positive energy that resounded through his body. It felt wrong and unnatural to him, like something slithering over his skin, but he needed to make up for his lapse of strength. Oh, for the full extent of his abilities... he'd gladly take the hunger than came along with it. It had not been an opportune time to feed, certainly. He turned straight north, heading for the Gold Road.

After all, what kind of fugitive would take the road?

He wasn't planning on following it, no, but the forests and steep terrain of the Colovian highlands would throw them off almost irrevocably. Also, if they didn't see him turn, the guards would keep heading towards the West Weald for quite some time until they realized their mistake.

But by Sithis, he hated the detour with every fiber of his body. He needed to get back home as soon as possible, and even if this was a necessary waste of time, it was still a waste of time. A traitor had struck again, of that he was certain, but the new evidence was staggering. Lucien, himself, and Ocheeva had been quite aware of the presence of an assassin among assassins for quite some time, but unless somebody had managed to do a very good Lucien mimicry or intercepted some of his orders, then Lachance himself may well be the traitor. After all, it was possible for somebody else to have found out the orders and tipped off the guards, and it wouldn't be out of the traitor's marked behavior, but the fact that such a contract had been assigned to Vicente in the first place kept his hackles up.

His travelling cloak whipped in the slipstream of his speed, his loosely-held ponytail trailing aloft as well as he leapt over a rocky formation jutting from the ground. A wolf's eyes stared balefully at him from the scrub as he approached, but didn't make a move to attack him. It was a very desperate predator indeed that would try to hunt a vampire. At a distance, Vicente did not look terribly different from a human, but sight is not the only tool that animals rely on.

Yes, in some ways, animals were much more perceptive than men or mer. But having such instincts and strengths to fall back on when human strategy or diplomacy failed was one of the reasons why the vampire had managed to live so long.

Dilapidated marble arches surrounded a crumbling statue of a winged mer. A few will-o-the-wisps floated around its chipped head like a living halo. Had he not been faced with a pursuing party and imminent danger for his Family, he would have certainly leaned back and enjoyed the Ayleid crafting, lit up by the mischevious light-creatures. As it was, he kept moving. It could be a very bad situation if he holed himself up where guards might search – he was not nearly at full strength, and once day broke, he would not be able to escape whatever place he sought refuge in. It was best to get away as far as he could, to make the radius of havens he could escape to the largest.

One of the wisps was trailing after him, probably attempting to lure another hapless adventurer to his demise. He waved a dismissive hand at it, calling up a minor frost spell. It wasn't enough to damage it, but will-o-the-wisps hated the cold. The ghostly entity got the message and whirled away, chittering angrily.

Again, Vicente was strangely fond of the mischevious creatures. They were mysterious and strange, transcending tangibility and reality itself. And they were so akin to the ways of his Family, even if they served nothing but themselves; they were underhanded, cunning, and they were breathtakingly beautiful even in their deathcraft. Whenever one would take after him, and he had the time to play, he'd often humor it, allowing it to try and mislead him until it started trying to steal his vitality. But this was most definitely not the time.

He only paused when the dead aloe and lilies gave way to a stone stretch clear of snow. No clatter of pursuit reached his ears, even at the very edge of his hearing. It looked like he'd thrown them off after all... A quick scan for life told him that the Gold Road was deserted in his vicinity, and he quickly crossed the path, not keen on being out in the open.

He continued north – going west would follow the road, going northwest would lead him to Kvatch, where wanted posters might have already sprung, and southwest would take him further from Cheydinhal. The last thing the Sanctuary needed now was for a battalion of guards to be led to their door – but what if, he realised, with a feeling of dread, Lucien had betrayed them as well?

Now that he'd shaken the soldiers from his trail, he had the space of mind to consider other things, none of them happy.

Even if the Speaker still maintained his innocence, there was no denying that the Brotherhood had been infiltrated. The killings and disappearings up until now had been suspicious, certainly, but they all could be explained as isolated coincidences. Vicente did not believe in coincidence, but now the prood was undeniable. Somewhere in the Dark Brotherhood, there was a leak.

And even if Lucien wasn't the actual traitor, his connection to the current affair could be just as bad. Even worse, perhaps, for all its connotations.

With a pang of dread, he realised that Lachance could have pegged _him_, Vicente Valtieri, as the traitor. Why else would he have been assigned a rigged contract and been handed over to the Watch? He'd served his Family selflessly – beyond selflessly – for over two centuries. Did that mean nothing?

But the Brotherhood had eyes everywhere, and the truth was, he'd twice saved the life of a girl who'd sworn vengeance against his Family. Twice saved, and never once told a soul of his involvement.

And no matter how weak Avielle Fradaun was, it had the potential to look very bad for him...

0o0o0

Avielle would have liked to say that she remained brave and stoic as the pair of minotaurs came at her, but that would have been a blatant lie. A thin shell of leather seemed awfully little in the means of protecting her skin from those gleaming axes and viciously curved horns.

And it was.

The only bits of melee combat Avielle knew were scraps she'd watched from tavern brawls and ruffians she'd encountered in the wildernesses of Cyrodiil. One such party was heavily drunk, and the other had been fighting with melee as she'd peppered them with magic, so her practical knowledge beyond what Rohssan had taught her was fairly close to nil.

The first cloven-hoofed monster was barely five feet away from her now, its cleaver swinging back to prepare for the first strike. She tried to roll to her side, imitating a move she'd seen a bandit do once – she only succeeded in falling over, but at the same time, she missed the axe by a few inches. It slammed into the thick, churned mud so close to her head that her ears nearly popped. The monster grunted as it tried to heave its weapon from the ground, sending thick clods of dirt flying into the struggling Breton's hair and face. Avielle thrashed, trying to get to her feet. It was distracted, she only had to get away from it and _where was her dagger_...

It glinted feebly in the mud – she must have dropped it. She leaned forward, reaching out to grab what seemed like her only lifeline, and screamed.

Icy shock was soon followed by two lines of blazing agony.

The other minotaur had not been so distracted, and had aimed to sever its unaware prey's spine as it struggled uselessly in the filthy ground. Had Avielle not lunged for her weapon at that very second, her life would doubtlessly have ended with that blow. As things stood, the axe scored deep wounds into the back of her calves, severing muscles and tendons and causing a level of pain that the Breton had never even comprehended,

She felt her feet go limp as both Achilles' tendons snapped, felt the wet warmth soaking the torn leather and dribbling down her limbs. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the scream of agony that both tore from her lips and remained trapped in her throat, unable to articulate the sheer pain that only worsened when the minotaur picked her up like a doll. She hung almost bonelessly, her frenetic attempts to struggle in complete futility. Its stench overwhelmed her; blood and sweat mingled with its hot, stinking breath. The thing shook her once, almost experimentally – Avielle felt a rib snap, and shrieked again. This upset the other minotaur, which had left its axe and proceeded to twist its head, allowing its horns to tear at the girl's midsection. The leather ripped like parchment, and blood quickly followed, spilling from ragged wounds. Avielle wailed again, punching the dagger she still somehow clung to into the minotaur's arm; with a bellow, her captor tossed her in the air and let her crash to the rubble.

She hit the ground bleeding and broken, mud in her mouth and nose, and blood rising in her throat. The armor was torn enough to the point of nearly falling off, and her insides honestly felt like following suit. There were deep gashes in her abdomen and chest along with the immbolizing wounds in her legs. She choked, coughing up dirt and blood. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe...

Avielle heard the squelching of heavy hooves approaching in the mud, and she closed her eyes and waited to die.

This was it. The gamble had failed. She'd made it this far, she'd learned so much... but the end had come. Courage, perception, and patience... but what had resolve meant, in the face of impossible odds? Avielle felt nothing except a sudden, intense tiredness, and a willingness for the pain to be over; her desperation to live buckled under the unimaginable strain. She struggled, trying to get to her feet, but her bloodied legs gave way; what was it that they so often idolized, to die on your feet? She couldn't even have that saving grace. To die on your knees in somebody's dream, alone, all of the strings of life left untied...

Her mother's vengeance would never come to fruition, and they'd both died in vain...

Something inside Avielle snapped.

Perhaps it was her inhibitions. Maybe it was her whole mind. One observing her wouldn't have noticed a difference; outside, she was still a beaten-down and heavily injured Breton in scraps of leather, hair tangled and matted with blood. But on the inside, an epiphany had struck her with the force of a magical supernova.

It was _herself_ that was limiting her, her own fear and doubt that was holding her back from her magicka. Not just in the Dreamworld, but in reality as well. There was a _reason_ that her mother had managed what she could not, why she could bend the most powerful magic to her will. There was a reason why she had been willing to risk her life, a reason why she'd given it up in order to push forward her dreams.

Some things were worth dying for.

Some things were worth dying for, and _this wasn't one of them!_

Her fear gave way, her doubts snapped, and with them, the Dreamworld's Silencing curse was swept away. The complete well of her arcane power opened itself up to her and rushed her like a wild animal. The force of the raw, unleashed magicka hit her with enough force to sweep her very self away into the ether. But she endured the torrent with a manic joy, laughing as the agony cascaded through her very soul, charging every nerve ending and electrifying her veins. Avielle embraced the pain, bringing it under her wing rather than trying to fight it off. She'd never felt so alive before; if anything, she felt that if any more energy were to flow into her, she wouldn't survive it. Her injuries suddenly no longer mattered. It was almost as if this sudden overflow of power was keeping her animated. Still crouched on the ground, her right hand jerked upwards, involuntarily, as if itching to release the uncontrollable power that blossomed there.

When she opened her eyes, they glowed.

"Not today, you bastards," she spat, and a tempest of ice, lightning, and flame left her fingers.

It wasn't alone. At the same time, impossible healing energies infused her body, causing mortal wounds to knit back together and lost blood to replenish. A sudden influx of vitality infused her limbs, the burst of strength and speed making her want to run and leap as fast as she could simply to see if she could jump over the clouds and fly. It was giddying, maddening, with life whirling throughout your body as death screamed from your fingertips.

Then it was gone, leaving her drained, eyes dull, fatigued nearly to the point of collapse, and...

And alive.

The minotaurs didn't stand a chance. The sheer force of the magical assault lifted the gargantuan beasts off their feet, throwing them back into the walls of theArena; where their frozen forms shattered and were burned mercilessly by flame and voltage. Had she spared an advised look at what was left of them, she would have probably passed out, but as it was, she couldn't tell them apart from the rest of the burning rubble on the battlefield. It was as if the minotaurs had simply vanished.

_Did I... do that?_

Not daring to get to her feet, she wiggled her fingers experimentally. She couldn't feel it, that insane surge of magicka that had saved her life. She was no longer silenced, but that maddened flow of arcane power had dimmed back down to a level that was close to what she normally felt. But even so, there was a tangible change. Something had happened, that much was pretty damn obvious. Never before had she managed to bring forth such an arcane storm.

She stretched one leg, tentative. It felt a little cramped, but otherwise showed no signs of having been nearly destroyed minutes ago. Had she really healed it so completely? Curiously, she cast a light spell as she slowly stood. It came easily, the Dreamworld's hold on her magicka broken, but the little magelight that bobbed at her fingertips was not particularly impressive. Certainly, it was uncomparable to the maelstrom she'd unleashed; it was just an ordinary creation, as mundane as magic could ever be.

Avielle jumped as something grated behind her, whirling around in a panic – she half-expected to see the minotaurs return. Instead, however, she saw two sets of twisting marble stairs rising from the muddy battlefield, pristine among the filth, rising up to something she'd previously missed. A green light blazed in the red sky like a strange, inverted sun, glowing powerfully amongst the storm.

Somehow, as she gazed at it, the Breton knew that this was the last trial.

Perhaps it was the bloodred skies as she ascended one twining staircase, giving the scene the feel of a sunset. Perhaps it was the way that the mind fragment shone so high above the test, at the peak of a pinnacle. Perhaps it was the lesson she'd learned, the magicka she'd never known she'd had, or the simple fact that resolve was the willpower employed to attain one's goals – and she'd attained it.

Perhaps it was because that if she had to go through _one more damned test,_ Avielle was going to punch Henantier so hard, his great-grandmother in Summerset Isle was going to feel the pain.

Regardless of how, Avielle knew that this was it. Courage, perception, patience, and resolve. She'd displayed all of them to retrieve them, finding those same things buried deep within herself – well, patience could go off and die painfully in a corner somewhere, but she had to admit, for all the hell the Dreamworld had caused her, looking back at herself before the trials, she had to admit, she'd been extremely ignorant.

All she felt now was a deep fatigue, and a longing to see a world that she knew to be real.

_Take me home_, she thought, and reached for Henantier's Resolve, allowing the viridian light to engulf her in its tempest of raw emotion.

And it did.

0o0o0

It was half past five in the morning when Vicente finally stopped.

He was quite sure he'd lost the guards some time ago – a very fortituous occurrence, since the ice had given way to snow – but it was better to err on the side of caution. He'd decided to skirt around Kvatch by a wide margin, in the odd case that word had spread and they were running patrols on the lookout. Unlikely, but possible – in Morrowind, the guards had done everything at their disposal to eradicate vampires. The sentiment was not quite so vehement in Cyrodiil, but Vicente would hardly be able to warn his Family if he were dead... that was to say, _really_ dead.

He'd have preferred to continue running in the thick woodland between Skingrad and Chorrol, but dawn was tarnishing the night sky with tinges of gray, and the Colovian Highlands was an uninviting, barren region with scarce shelter. If he passed up his current chance, he might not find another before daylight turned him to dust.

Vicente gazed upon the ruins of Fort Hastrel. Some two hundred and fifty years ago, not long after he'd arrived from Morrowind, the Council had decided it had no more need for its network of outposts within the main province. It was curious, the vampire reflected, and a little melancholy, to consider how time had brought such proud ramparts of white stone down to their knees, while he remained almost untouched.

And for the moment, time seemed to be standing still with him. No birds sang, no winds blew, and no motion stirred the snow; still were the shrouded shrubs and brush whise branches doggedly broke the surface of the white sea. Twilight cast one of those rare moments where everything appeared to hold its breath.

Breaking the illusion, he crossed over to the fort's entrance, kicking over his footprints as he went.

The breeze finally stirred as he dragged open the heavy wooden doors, pulling away from him and coaxing the somewhat warmer air from the fort to go along with it.

All breezes carry scents, and the assassin was extremely – perhaps uniquely – acquainted with this one.

Vampires.

Which could either be very good or very bad. If he tried to spend the day in the fort, they'd undoubtedly notice him. He knew vampiric senses and powers to the utmost. They might welcome him as one of their kind, or they could be more territorial and turn him away – and if it came to a fight, he could quite well be outmatched. Admittedly, Vicente did not have very much experience with vampire clans outside of Morrowind. The Quarra had grudgingly accepted him, and clans Berne and Aundae wanted him dead. Things were less black-and-white in this province, which was why Vicente had spared himself the trouble in the first place and existed as a loner in his years before the Brotherhood.

It was ridiculous, really, a vampire harboring reservations about encountering his own kind. Perhaps stress was catching up with him.

His own clan had hardly been deferent; when he'd left the Quarra, the fondest farewell aimed at him had been 'good riddance'. Granted, he'd been the 'accident', the unwanted mistake, and having three hundred years behind him now most definitely meant something. At the very least, it might earn him some respect among his kin...

But, he noted wryly, was there any point debating such things when his only other option was to burn down to cinders?

He stepped into the darkness, and the doors slammed shut behind him with a resounding clang.

0o0o0

Avielle's eyes fluttered open to sunlight.

For a moment, all she could do was gaze up in wonder at the warm golden light streaming through the windows – windows that no longer glared with a horrid crimson cast. She was laying on a second bed, one that hadn't been in Henantier's bedroom... or had it? The tables were intact, the alchemy displays empty and pristine... everything was whole.

And if the sunlight was here, then it meant that...

"I'm... back? In the real world?" she asked aloud to nobody, bolting upright.

Something in the corners of her peripheral vision moved. "Oh, she's finally waking up."

Hearing that raspy, reptilian voice reminded her of somebody she dearly wanted to beat up, but at the same time, it made her want to kiss the ground, because she was finally out of hell. She twisted around, noting with relief that her clothes were once again present – and with even more relief as she saw Henantier clothed as well, a simple blue robe maintaining his modesty. Kud-Ei was next to him, looking extremely relieved, and not the slightest bit guilty.

Avielle rolled out of the bed, stumbling a little as she got to her feet. Her legs were full of pins and needles, as if she had been sleeping for an age. Perhaps she had been. She stretched, rolling her shoulders and wiggling her fingers. She didn't feel like she had just woken from a dream, but then again, it had been a _very_ screwed-up dream.

"Thank the Nines," she muttered fervently. "I never thought I'd be this happy to see sunlight again."

"I know what you mean," the Altmer replied, stepping forward. "I would have never made it out of that place if not for you. I have to thank you for putting up with so much, but..." Henantier rubbed his cheek ruefully. "Was it really necessary to punch me that frequently?"

"It damn was," the Breton nodded, still jovial. At the thought of her friend being manhandled, Kud-Ei gave Avielle an accusing glare. The girl rolled her eyes in response. "Don't get all self-righteous with me, Argonian. You sent me into that hell without my permission and against my will. I nearly died in the Dreamworld more times than I have in the rest of my life combined. You're lucky that I'm letting it drop."

"I suppose you're right," the Argonian said, somewhat balefully. "And you did do us a great service. We'll have to compensate you for your efforts, but I don't have much, I'm afraid."

"I have some powerful scrolls I've been working on," Henantier added. "You're more than welcome to a few of them."

Pieces of parchment with one-use spells seemed a pitiful reward for her trials, but then again, she'd gained something else that nobody would have ever been able to grant her. She could still feel it, that deeper, wilder well of magicka within. It was willful, proud, and unwilling to be tamed, but the sheer, effortless power that had engulfed her in the Dreamworld suddenly seemed like the key to everything she'd been looking for.

"Thank you," she answered, following him to a cupboard and perusing his selection. Even after saving his life, Henantier probably didn't want her to take all of his scrolls. The Breton turned a few over, reading the arcane glyphs inscribed. He had a few interesting fire spells, but Avielle wanted to stick to the schools that she knew relatively little about. After a bit of pondering, she took a soultrap enchantment, two scrolls of invisibility, water breathing, and even though she was proficient in Restoration, one of his Fortify Acrobatics scrolls that was too powerful to resist.

"No smacking this time?" the Altmer joked after Avielle had closed the cupboard.

"No need," she grinned back. "I've got a staff of paralysis in the real world. Much better for knocking people over."

Henantier sighed. "Kud-Ei certainly picked an interesting helper... and speaking of. I heard you wanted to talk to me about my practice? I'm not sure how much help I can be to you, but it's true I've done a fair amount of previously uncharted magical research."

"Actually..." Avielle frowned thoughtfully. "I think I already found what I was looking for."

**And one last thing. If there's something you want to see, tell me in your reviews. I do have a skeletal plotline I'm going to stick to, but I can and already have deviated from things that I was going to do because you suggested an interest in it, a lot of people liked it, or too many of you predicted something was going to happen, and I changed around events. Some examples of this improv were Ray's 'lol, like, duuude' attitude, the guards at Anvil, M'aiq's reappearance, and Avielle's sassiness as a defining trait rather than just an anger thing.**

**Mind you, I probably won't tell you whether I'm going to do it or not. Just to keep you on your toes. But plot twists, characters, scenes, confrontations, side quests... things that you want to see, tell me. Because you just might see them.**


	13. Encounter

**Author's Note – I don't own Oblivion, and a huge thank-you to all of you who take the time to review. Sorry this took some time to get up, I was busy doing this awful crocheting project and writing my other oneshot, and you know how Christmas is... I've been consistently putting this off and subsequently feeling bad about it. Anyway, I doubt I'll be updating in all of January, save this - I'm sorry, but don't worry, I'm not dead. Just other stuff going on this month, I'm afraid.**

**Dreamer – Thank you! A staff would have been the obvious choice – not to mention too easy and not teaching her anything about the thing. Avielle was too buoyed about her discovery with magic and getting out of the Dreamworld to be as mad as she had a right to be. In any other case, Kud-Ei would have had her face rearranged.**

**Arty – Same thing about the staff. It's just too damn easy, takes all the difficulty out of the trial. I love wisps :o I set their aggression to zero, that makes them all leave you alone. And Vicente does have a slightly deeper reason for liking them, I'll touch upon that later. Vicente being deemed the traitor? Perhaps he wasn't. :P He's just trying to rationalize things. Description... eeep, thank you :D That really made my day. And you really should stop being so hard on yourself. You're extremely good. I don't know how to hammer that into your head, but... **

**DualKatanas – All right then, let's just say that the official guard uniform got changed to leather jackets and spandex. /shot Seriously, though, I just always figured it was pansy armor. Avielle – yeah, she might carry a dagger, but the worst she can do is poke you with it. She's not that kind of a fighter, hands down. I guess you're right about fortification magic, but it's not permanent, and you're right; not many people could bring up such spells. And when I was writing Avielle getting diced, I had to keep asking my mom (who is a nurse) about if severing something here would make this useless, and if tendons shatter or snap... by the end of it, she was giving me the **_**weirdest**_** look.**

**Nightmares – Yay, another reviewer! It makes me really happy that I have more readers than I originally thought, and I hope you enjoy it as I continue on. **

**Dandy – You seriously just made my morning. :D I was having a pretty bad one, but you really brightened up my day. Thank you so much!**

**Reva – Don't worry, Avielle's RAEGSMACKING days are far from over.**

**Carlotta – Thanks for explaining the fourth wall, but now, I'm not really sure how I broke it. :/ Ah well, that really does clear things up. And M'aiq is amazing. I said I wouldn't reply to your wishes, but... I have to say, you have not seen the last of M'aiq in this story. I promise. (He really needs to be on the character list, so does Janus Hassildor – they're so much more important than a lot of the people that show up.)**

**PossessedPen – You really flatter me :D. All right, that's it – I **_**need**_** to get this chapter done, no matter how writer's blocked I am. Thank you!**

It wasn't long before Avielle found herself on the road again.

Talking with Henantier hadn't really provided much insight. He didn't know anything about hidden powerwells, and concluded he couldn't sense anything in her besides a normal Bretonic level of magicka when she tried to verify her claim. He also knew very little about Destruction – he couldn't even light a lamp with a fire spell – and Avielle had no need for his specialties, which lay in Illusion and Mysticism. In the end, she left Bravil none the wiser.

Almost none the wiser, anyways. Kud-Ei had informed her that if she really believed she'd discovered some hidden store of power within her, Carahil in Anvil would be the one to know about it. The head of the guild that specialized in Restoration was an expert in all things pertaining to the body. And that was the best lead she had, the Green Road it was.

After the all the stress of Dreamworld, the last thing Avielle wanted to do was go travelling again. She'd have been perfectly happy sleeping for the next week or so – sleeping _naturally_, that was – but then again, it was exactly as she always said. Lazing around never got anything done, and she was not going to drop her grudges that easily.

There were advantages to setting out so soon after her trials, however. Spending long durations of time holed up in study tended to dull one's skills and cause complacency. As it was, the challenges she'd seen so far on the road – an angry boar and a rat – had been incomparable to her more recent exploits. Both were now in a way that could only be described as 'well done'. And the feeling of being in control of her life was brilliant - every breeze, cloud, and sunbeam seemed so much sweeter, compared to the hellish scenery she'd just escaped.

Avielle started to whistle, ad-libbing a rather cheerful tune as she followed the cobblestone road. It was cool, but fairly warm for winter, and her thick coat was soft and toasty.

Going to Carahil seemed even more important than it had at the outset. She still couldn't figure out how to summon up that same magic from before, however; her spells were as normal as could be, no matter how much she could feel the power humming inside of her. The constant feeling of having something flutter just outside her reach was rapidly starting to frustrate her.

Not to say, of course, that _frustrated_ was a new state of being for Avielle, but you had to pity the unfortunate thugs that made the enormous tactical mistake of jumping her.

Really, you did.

0o0o0

Vicente stepped into the darkness.

Rather, it would have been darkness for anyone other than him and the fort's occupants. He could see perfectly fine. Vampires have no need or affinity for torches; they're made to live at night, and are averse to fire anyhow. Besides, why would they be compelled to place any unwitting prey stumbling into their hideout at an advantage? Best to have them wandering around blind – the Quarra had taught him that, back in the days where he'd hunted by staying still rather than stalking.

Fort Hastrel was the archetype of a vampire nest; strands of cobwebs trailed from the stone-carved tunnels, and messy, aged bloodstains spotted the ground. Vicente sighed to himself and shook his head. Amateurs.

However, as he continued on, he became aware that something was distinctly _wrong_. At first it was mere intuition, a shivering discomfort chilling his spine, but he quickly realized that the feeling was warranted. The bloodstains on the ground were growing more frequent, and they were _fresh_. And, he noted, crouching to examine one, the blood was too thin and unappealing to him to be from any living man, mer, or beast.

And the silence. Unless every vampire in the clan was standing perfectly still, refusing to do so much as breathe, then something was definitely off. The Dark Gift lent its bearers great grace and stealth, but it gave powerfully enhanced senses as well; the fact that he couldn't hear anything else was unusual, and lent him some growing trepidation. He almost called up his Hunter's Sight to scout the area, but that would have done him little good, seeing that the dead did not possess any life energy to begin with.

He reconsidered this, however, when he came across his first corpse.

It was a vampire, its unseeing red eyes wide and staring. Vicente had no doubt it was permanantly dead; the Bosmer had suffered what looked like the shattering blows of a mace, and her throat had been slit deep enough to cut into the bone. Dead ichor pooled around her, seeping into the cracks and painting the stone a deep, brownish-red. The blood of the undead did not congeal as quickly as the living, it was true, but even so, it wasn't yet tacky. Which meant that the killing had occurred very recently, perhaps not even hours ago.

Not too far after this, he found another body, and he cursed silently under his breath. Within a second, he had activated his Sight and promptly scanned the halls, peering through the walls around him.

Out of all the shelters he could have picked for the day, he'd chosen the one filled with vampire hunters.

Because what else could the lifeless Dunmer have been? It was – or had been – living, Vicente was sure. His face was young and unlined, the canines in his parted maw small and unassuming, and the blood surrounding sent a sudden thrill of rapacity burning in his throat. The mace that had helped kill the Bosmer before was still in his hand, and the vampire could sense the fire enchantment still thriving within it. The choice of weapon was a giveaway in itself; flame was the universal vampiric weakness, since mages couldn't summon sunlight.

Vicente glanced backwards, half-considering turning back, but it was far too late to even dream of being outside and exposed now. He was an accomplished assassin, not an animal living in a cave, but even so, he was understandably on edge at the thought of being surrounded by those trained to exterminate his kind.

_You're drawing conclusions too hastily_, he reminded himself. _From the look of that Dunmer, the clan here put up a good fight. _

Any survivng vampires would probably be hostile after what they'd suffered, and any surviving hunters would attack him, hands-down. He would probably be facing a group of stragglers, tired and hurt from the fight they'd already had. Overconfidence killed, yes, but he was putting more apprehension towards the situation than it deserved. He pressed forward, stepping carefully over a thick pile of ash – somebody had been overzealous with their spells.

It wasn't long before the hall opened up into a grand, cavernous room. The smell of spilled blood, vampiric and mortal both, hit him like a fist to the stomach, even if it was his mind that reeled instead of his body. Before him was... utter carnage. Bodies, ash, scorch marks, and hunks of twisted metal and leather littered the ground like debris from a nightmare. About ten cadavers were all that remained of a small party of vampire hunters and an even larger group of their prey. Unless there were more waiting in the wings, neither had won the fight in the end

Something glimmered weakly at the corner of his eye; the trembling glow of a survivor, and a mortal one, at that. It seemed to be prone, flat on the ground, and its life force was frail and flickering. He let his vision lapse into natural sight, probing the scene with his acute eyes – indeed, there was a living creature on the bloodied stone, breathing labored, barely a few feet away from a deceased vampire that had been turned into a sickening parody of a pincushion.

At first, he assumed they were unconscious, but at the quiet pad of his footsteps, the person stirred and looked him straight in the eye.

The figure was a Khajiit; green eyes squinted balefully at him from the semidarkness. She was female, by her tapered muzzle and slender limbs. A gem-encrusted bow lay just out of reach of one outstretched paw. Her suit of elven armor was in very poor shape, almost beyond repair – it was deformed by dents in some places, and the whole left arm cover had been ripped off. The limb beneath was held stiffly at an odd angle, apparently broken. Dried blood encrusted her jet-black fur, and Vicente felt the familiar hunger stir within him, despite having sated it so recently. At least it was managable enough to repress casually. It was clear she wasn't a vampire, but their scent clung to her far deeper than simply being around them; it took him a moment to realize that she was infected but not yet turned, the disease festering inside of her.

Her eyes widened as she drew in his obviously vampiric features; emeralds met rubies with utmost suspicion, and then quickly morphed into outright hostility. Unsurprising...

Vicente crossed over to her, and she hissed, lips curling back to reveal gleaming teeth.

"Coming back to... finish me off... monster? Were my friends not enough... for you?"

"I beg your pardon?" The vampire stopped a few feet away from her, his eyes unfathomable. "I just arrived here. I'll admit, I wasn't expecting to see such a massacre."

A tight, humorless smile twisted the Khajiit's muzzle, her fierce expression half a grin and half a grimace. "Didn't expect... we... hunters... could take you... bloodsuckers down... did you?" she asked, defiant. Even though it was now quite clear Vicente was speaking to a vampire hunter, he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of admiration for the Khajiit. She was staring her apparent death in the face, and she mocked him without a trace of fear. Even down for the count, her demeanor and ebony complexion lent her the appearance of a panther. He crossed the last of the distance between her and knelt by her side.

"You misunderstand me. I'm afraid I'm not at all acquainted with the clan that hid here," he said smoothly. "I simply sought shelter from the sunlight, and this was the closest building."

"A... likely story. Why don't you just... get it... over with?"

"Get what over with?" Now he was almost teasing. He had to admit, he was enjoying himself a little. Predatory instinct mandated he derived some satisfaction from playing with the prey, even if he wasn't actually hunting her, and she was simply asking for it.

"Hnnrrggh..." The Khajiit groaned, twisting in pain. "Stop toying... with me... you animal!"

And with frightening speed, she lunged at him with claws unsheathed.

0o0o0

"Your wallet or your life," the Argonian rasped, brandishing a very dangerous-looking sword.

Avielle blinked. One second, she'd been following the road, practicing incantations under her breath. A bush had rustled, and suddenly there were three highwaymen surrounding her, none of them seeming overly friendly.

"Oh, great," she muttered.

"Pay up." The reptile extended a scaly hand, and Avielle gritted her teeth.

"Can't you fetchers earn a living some other way? Be peddlers, play an instrument, I don't care. Life is hard enough with everyone walking the straight and narrow, scum."

The Argonian tilted his head; clearly, he wasn't used to anyone talking back to him. The bandit to his left, an Altmer, stepped forward. "We do provide a service for the people, miss. One hundred Septims for your safe passage. Is that not fair?"

"Well..." The Breton pretended to think. "Since you're the reason this road is dangerous-" here, she made mocking quotation marks in the air with her fingers, "-to begin with, I'd say no, it isn't fair at all."

"Pretty talk won't get you through," growled the third, a collossal Orc. "Pay the boss a hundred sep'ms or we cut you up good."

"I don't _have_ one hundred septims on me," Avielle said truthfully. The only things she carried were her meager assortment of weapons and a travelling bag containing a few coins, potions, and some food. "I keep all of my money in the Mages' Guild vaults. So get out of my way or become my target practice for the afternoon. I've got some spells I've been itching to test out."

If she'd been hoping that bringing up her affiliation would intimidate the rogues, she was sorely mistaken. All she earned was a condescending smile from the Altmer and full-out derisive laughter from the other two. After a quarter of a minute the Argonian held up a hand, still chuckling in dry, reptilian cadences.

"A mage, eh? Cute. But speaking of, that staff you're carrying looks as though it would certainly cover our little toll," one of the flanking highwaymen noted.

Avielle took a step back, suddenly very aware of the staff's comfortable weight on her back, nestled firmly in its straps. "Like hell I'm giving that away, fetchers."

The Argonian raised one scaly eyebrow; as if on cue, his cronies drew a bow and a mace respectively. "You don't really have a choice, girl," he hissed. "You can give it to us, or we'll pry it from your corpse's fingers. Take your pick, Breton, and hurry up. You've wasted enough of our time already."

Fighting. If there was anything Avielle hated... well, no, she hated a lot of things, but fighting was high up on her list. And even if the Altmer looked like a bit of a sop, the Argonian and Orc were screaming 'battle-hardened', and the latter's mace was generously crusted in gore from his past exploits. All she had was a paralysis staff, a silver knife, and magic that refused to cater to her whims...

"Well?"

She mustered up all the defiance she could. "I've had enough of people screwing with me. Get out of my sight."

"Wrong answer," the Altmer said silkily. His grin didn't falter, but there was now a tangibly feral undertone to it. It reminded her uncomfortably of the necro-whatevers she'd kept running into in months past.

"I think it's the right one," the Orc grunted, hefting his spiked mace. "It's been too long since I got to carve up some meat."

The Argonian highwayman didn't bother with lines at first; instead, he twirled his broadsword in a rather elegant fashion, finally settling into a combat stance that bespoke years of experience. "Fair enough," he hissed. "It's more loot this way anyways. Even though it's a pity to kill a fine specimen like yourself... try not to damage her staff, boys. It looks valuable."

"I'll try not to damage your pathetic asses," she shot back, more instinctive bravado than actual confidence. Seeing a large and hostile Orsimer in close quarters was an extremely unnerving sight to those unfamiliar with combat, and Avielle was no warrior. And the speed-stealing spell she always relied on was a bad choice in short range - if she were to use it now, she'd end up in the spell's radius, and would be just as debilitated as her foes. She could throw smaller fireballs, but that would take longer _and that arrow just came really close to my head - _

No, she definitely had to get them on the ground before she could do anything else. Time to rely on her little souvenir from the University. Avielle fumbled with her straps, desperation making her movements clumsy and futile. _Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap..._

_And why are _you_ afraid?_ whispered a little voice in the back of her mind.

It presented itself mockingly, almost lazily. There it was again - that renewed, deepened sense of _something else_, a half of her she'd only just discovered and was beginning to understand, perhaps even a sense of self-completion she was drifting toward. The warm, electrifying sensation of raw arcane power charged every nerve ending in her body. Once more, she was overcome with the impossibly intense feeling of being _alive._

_You, who could bring the world down to its knees,_ the rasp continued.

Bringing the world to its knees did not sound particularly appealing to the Breton, but kicking bandit ass was more than welcome. The magic swirled around her, inside her, sparking from her fingers and glowing through her eyes. To anyone else, Avielle would have looked possessed. As it was, she could have been. But she couldn't see it. The typically analytical and hot-headed mage had shifted entirely to the 'hot-headed' side, and her mind was entirely, almost obsessively focused on the task before her - erasing three fetchers from the face of Nirn. She lifted her hand, fixing her now solid-blue eyes on the paused ruffian trio.

The magicka came forth.

And it was nothing like she remembered.

The raw elemental power rushed from her palms with a flash of ominous crimson light; the air froze, sublimated, and convulsed where the unrefined spell passed through. The trio of ruffians had roughly enough time to become morbidly aware of their poor choice in victims, and then they were doomed. But the feeling of invigoration that had accompanied the last instance was absent, and the ravaging claws of her elemental slaughter did not stop with her targets.

Her skin was _burning_, cracking and charring with voltage, caught up in the deadly tempest of her own attack...

Avielle's screams joined the highwaymen's as she doubled over, feeling as if she'd been doused in acid. _Make it stop!_ she begged internally, but the magicka had been awakened, and it would not be pacified now; it mercilessly razed her as it used her as a conduit to escape to the outside world. She would have crumpled to the stone, had the flow of power not been holding her semi-upright like a marionette.

Her sight faded into the confused blackness of unconsciousness, except she was still aware. There was a sound like thunder crashing, only it seemed to roll on and on for an eternity, mingled with the hissing of flame and steam. Seconds stretched out into encompassing eternity, distorted almost to the point of time not existing at all. There was only cacophony and pain.

By the time she fell to her knees, as bonelessly as a puppet with its strings cut, she could no longer feel - or otherwise sense - her legs hitting stone. The only thing she could comprehend was that the ravaging flow of magicka had shuddered to a stop, leaving her to flounder in the dark and wait for her senses to return with agonizing slowness. Smell was first to return, bringing with it the nightmarish odor of burning to coat her nostrils. Taste came with the coppery tang of blood - she must have bitten her tongue at some point, hard enough to make it bleed. Touch, everything ached, hearing, only the dry rustle of a cold gale, and then she opened her eyes.

Avielle struggled to her feet, breath coming in short gasps. She felt... truncated, it was the only word for it. The sheer influx of magic had vanished, whisking all of her energy away with it; now she trembled, fatigued beyond belief and barely able to keep herself upright. Her skin cracked and drifted to the stone as ash as she moved, and the foul smell of charred flesh made her dizzy.

Her sight was still hazy, blurred as if from concussion. She called up a frail healing spell, the best she could muster in her shell-shocked state. It was nothing impressive, but some of the burns eased up, her vision cleared, and her limbs were no longer shaking so badly.

Not that the slight well-being was going to last. The stretch of road, so previously well-kept, was black. Soot and frost lined the cracks between the cobblestones, and the snow on the path's sides was in a similiar condition - melted in some places, and deep-frozen into ice in others. Another magic seemed to linger in the air, something she couldn't place, but she was certain it was not elemental. And then, she realized with horror, what of her adversaries? Avielle was afraid to look, but her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own.

She took one look at what was left of the highwaymen and doubled over, retching dryly.

_What have I done?_

She'd seen this new power of hers as a boon, a means to achieve the vengeance she'd inherited from her family's death. Now, she felt herself shivering with a cavernous sense of fear. It was _wild,_ dangerous, uncontrollable... and she'd murdered the bandits as brutally and cold-bloodedly as the affiliation she so abhored.

_They attacked me first,_ her conscience put forth feebly, but she didn't_ feel_ it.

Avielle had to get away - there were no answers to be found here in this ruin, nothing but fear and confusion and shadows that gathered in the edges of her mind, whispering like scores of sinister shades.

_You wanted us, didn't you?_

_Why are you afraid of what you can be?_

_You _asked.

_What in Oblivion?_ Avielle jerked back, as if recoiling would distance her from the hisses in her head. Was she going mad? She shook her head to clear it, but the voices only intensified, growing from a few scattered whispers to scores of them.

_Aha! Ahahahahahahahahaha! _one laughed.

_No, don't do it! Please!_ another begged. _Don't hurt him! I'll do anything, just..._

_You, who could bring the world down to its knees..._

The clopping steps of a guard on horseback making his routine patrols drifted to her, snapping her out of her waking nightmare and banishing her ghosts to the darkest recesses of her mind.

Avielle ran.

0o0o0

Vicente caught her wrist gently but firmly a few inches from his face.

Vampires are difficult to surprise, and in her state, the Khajiit didn't stand a chance on loosing a successful attack. She struggled for a moment in his grip, then slumped backwards, panting – the sudden movements had aggravated her injuries and drained her already depleted energry. "Just... get... it over... with..." she rasped again, her pupils narrowed to slits with the pain.

"Will you calm down?" he murmured, a trace of amusement coloring his tone. "I'm really quite willing to be civil if you would be so kind as to act as such as well."

"I... should have... known... that... you bastards... play... with your food..." she gasped. "Stop... lying!"

By Sithis, she was a stubborn one. He sighed. "And yet you are hovering on the brink of becoming one of us bastards. How does that make you feel?"

She hissed, baring a mouthful of razor teeth. "Great... because then... I'll be able... to... kill you..."

"I doubt it." Vicente shook his head slightly, almost patronizing. "But if that's how you feel, I suppose I will have to remedy that."

Inwardly, he sighed. _By Sithis, I am starting to become a charity case._

He extended a hand, laying his palm over her head. She snapped at it once, and his other hand came down on the Khajiit's neck, restraining her as one would hold down a tantrum-throwing child. Her thrashing grew into motionless disbelief as he shivered, braced himself, and called up the contemptuous fires of Restoration magicka, trying to ignore the indescribably unpleasant feeling it brought with it. Where his hand came into contact with her forehead, the palm glowed a soothing silver-blue, drawing out the porphryic hemophilia and purifying her ravaged body.

Vicente shuddered as the last of the hated energies dissipated from his body, leaning back. How he detested that particular arcane school... but he couldn't deny its usefulness where others were concerned. The dark-furred Khajiit stared up at him in bewildered wonder for a few moments, unable to find her voice.

"Why...?" she finally rasped.

"I'm really not in the mood for trouble," he explained tonelessly to the wide-eyed female, but a small smirk betrayed his amusement. "Couldn't have feisty young vampire chasing me around, could I?"

He crossed his arms. "Those wounds look somewhat uncomfortable. I'll make you a deal. If I go fetch a healing potion for you, will you refrain from attacking me once back on your feet? Do not get me wrong, I don't fear you in the slightest, but I'm not in the mood to pick fights."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Why are you doing this for me?" Her voice was still weak, but the removal of the disease had restored her stamina, and she no longer was struggling for breath.

"I was born in a deeply chivalrous century. Those mannerisms don't really leave you if they are hammered into your mind for long enough, and I have been led to believe that it's bad manners to find a grievously wounded young lady and simply walk away."

Of course, that sort of thing was a boon on contracts, but he preferred not to 'finish the job' if it wasn't his, well, job.

"Why can't you just heal me with magic?" The Khajiit was still suspicious. Quietly, Vicente approved, almost as if he were assessing an apprentice. It was wisely cautious of her and bespoke either perception or experience - after all, anyone could slip nightshade and spiddal in a vial and call it a restorative.

"You're very thorough, aren't you?" he remarked. "I could, yes. But being undead, the energies of life do not agree with me as well as they once did. You can find healing potions practically anywhere, and I am sure there should be a handful of them in storage here. And honestly, if I was trying to kill you, I would not have waited this long to do it."

She scrutinised him for a few more moments, then abruptly sighed. "Doesn't make a difference if you kill me or not at this point, I guess. Fine. You have a deal."

"Excellent." The vampire stood, eyes raking the room intently until he located a likely-looking wooden chest against the north wall. He crossed over to it, brushing the lock aside with a muttered word and a golden glow. Indeed, the recepticle did contain a fine assortment of potions - not necessarily impressive by his standards, but perfectly respectable. He took a healing vial, uncorking it to make sure it was not spoiled, and then returned to the Khajiit.

"Can I ask you your name?" he inquired casually. "I find myself rather unable to leave this building at present, and I'd rather I had something to call you by."

She took the potion from him, sniffing it carefully. It seemed as though she could find nothing off with it, and a few seconds later, she struggled upright, downing the liquid in a few gulps. The effect was instantaneous - wounds sealed shut and bare patches regrew fur at an amazing rate. A sigh of relief escaped her mouth as the pain slipped into the ether from whence it came. Within seconds, the Khajiit looked as if nothing had ever ailed her - at least, she would have, had her armor not been destroyed.

She stretched, waving her tail experimentally. "Hunh," she muttered, mostly to herself. "I guess you weren't lying, after all." She looked up at the Breton, green eyes wary but no longer expressly hostile. "Na'viri. What's yours? 'Random vampire that's either freakishly friendly or is playing some extended and sadistic joke on me' seems kind of long."

The vampire in question laughed at that. "Vicente," he answered, stepping away and settling down next to the stone wall. He sat at an almost perfectly ninety-degree angle - it looked very uncomfortable to Na'viri, but Vicente seemed to think the opposite. He brushed a bit of the dust off the area, trying to keep his cloak pristine. "Charmed to make your acquaintance."

The Khajiit squinted. "Well, you weren't lying when you said you were old-fashioned. Does anyone actually say 'charmed' these days?"

"Perhaps not." He sighed. "If so, I would consider it a folly of modern civilization to have tossed such formalities aside. But etiquette is neither here nor there. May I inquire as to what exactly you and your unfortunate companions were doing here?"

Na'viri hesitated for a moment, then sighed.

"I guess there's no reason not to tell. It's not like it matters anymore."

"Don't worry." The vampire rolled his shoulders, trying to settle into the most comfortable position. "I assure you, I have no connection to the clan that existed here, and I'm uninterested in haring off after anyone for revenge. I simply prefer to _know_."

"Wouldn't bother me if you _did_ kill him," the Khajiit muttered. "'They're easy', he says, 'take some fire spells and you'll cut right through them', he says. I needed some money, and this bastard Altmer at the Kvatch Mages' Guild was paying well for vampire dust. I knew it sounded too good to be true..." She growled softly under her breath. "Never trust a mage. Um, no offense to you if you are one. Without that spell you cast on me, I'd be a mon- well, you know. Err, I..."

"None taken," Vicente said smoothly, letting her end her sudden floundering with grace. "I'm a practitioner, but magic is not exactly my profession. It simply constitutes a part of it."

"Oh, good." Na'viri was relieved. "I'm a freelancer, myself. Call myself an adventurer, but I'm not sure I have any claim to the title. Hnnh, just look at me."

"I don't know about that," the assassin noted genially. "If I am interpreting this correctly and you have never fought vampires before, then you actually managed quite well."

The Khajiit snorted. "I'm sure," she muttered, words bitingly sarcastic. "I rounded up a couple of old acquaintances. Mostly Fighters' Guild - they seem to be low on work lately. All dead now. We were massacred. It was pitch black, and none of my companions even knew what Night-Eye was... not a very good basis for vampire hunters, huh? Floundering around in the dark and getting attacked from all sides. I was the only one that could _see_; we were in this huge room and they were waiting at the walls... I think Selvel - he was one of us - ran for it, but I doubt he made it back outside. The rest of them were just flailing their weapons around blindly. Well, they could probably see shadows moving around, but we were basically fighting in the dark. And the worst thing was, I could shoot the bl- vampires off of them for fear of hitting them by accident. While I was hesitating, one of them jumped me from behind." She flexed her claws, which were still dark with blood. "I managed to kick him away and finish him off with my bow, but by then, there were only three of us - my allies - left. Then two. And..." Her eyes misted, and she drew a shuddering breath.

"It was just me and Hal-zet. I've known - I knew - him since the days we were urchins in Kvatch's streets. Of all the warriors I brought here, he was the only one I really could call a friend."

"So it was three of them and two of us. Hal-zet backhanded one with his axe and practically ripped it in two. And as I just stood there like an idiot, watching, something bit into my neck. I struggled and it started clawing me - by Talos, its nails were like daggers - and it went for my throat again when I was too hurt to fight back. And Hal... he saw me, and shouted something... and then he threw his axe. It wasn't a throwing axe. It had to weigh at least fifty pounds. But he did it all the same, and his aim was perfect. It embedded itself in the vamp's back, and it fell off me, gurgling blood."

"I got to my feet just in time to see the last vampire rise behind him and put a sword through his ribs."

With this, she gasped and began to cry in earnest. Vicente automatically placed a hand on her shoulder, gentlemanly instincts overriding the fact that she didn't belong to his Family. She didn't reject the gesture; instead, she struggled on with the retelling.

"H-H-Hal d-didn't die, n-not straight off. He w-was still m-m-moving, trying to p-pull back, and I... I tried to save him. I nocked an arrow and let f-fly, and the m-m-monster l-lifted him up H-Hal-zet like a sh-shield and it w-w-went straight through his n-neck! I k-killed my b-best friend!"

Vicente knew the feeling... different only in that he'd never be able to rationalize it to himself as an accident.

"No," soothed the vampire, but Na'viri continued to sob, shaking her head from side to side until she finally managed to quiet down.

"Look at me," she muttered, ears flat. "Bawling my eyes out to a vampire."

"I really shouldn't have asked about this," apologized Vicente. "It wasn't my right to pry."

"It's fine. I just... need some time for this to sink in. I c-can't believe he's really gone. Oh, Hal... I shot that bloodsucker like I was insane. Don't think I've ever nocked and loosed arrows that fast in my life... at the time, I didn't even realize it was me who was screaming. And you know what? I kept firing long after that bastard was dead. It was crazy, hell, _I_ was crazy, but it felt like if I killed his murderer enough times, it might bring Hal back. Insane, I know, but-"

"Insane?" Vicente laughed bitterly. "Not at all, no, not at all. I've been there before." _And the person I wanted to see dead was myself._

Na'viri sent him a questioning look, but he ignored it, not wanting to pursue the subject. Like hell he would, not with the nightmares starting to look so close to present reality.

Damn the sun. If not for it, nothing but conquerable distance would stand between him and the home he so desperately needed to reach. It wasn't that the Khajiit was bad company; professional analysis made it clear to him that she did not possess an assassin's mindset, but he had been surprised at her willingness to accept him so soon after what she had suffered. She seemed perceptive and devoted, both traits to admire - but she was not of his world, and he had things he needed to do.

The quickest way to pass the time would have been to sleep, as fatigue was catching up with him anyway. It had been a while since he'd had any true rest. But he was a fool if he was going to leave himself so vulnerable before a warrior whom he had no real reason to trust.

Almost as if she could see his thoughts, Na'viri suddenly squinted. "You know, you look terrible."

Vicente wasn't sure what she was commenting on. "Really? I always thought I was fairly dashing, taking into consideration that I have been dead for several centuries."

"No, that's not what I meant. You look... worn. Haggard. Like you haven't slept for a while. _Do_ vampires sleep? Or... oh. Er, not to overlook everything you've done for me, but I'd really, really prefer not to be a blood donor. Um, sorry, I shouldn't have brought this up in the first place."

The vampire grinned, letting the tiniest acuity of his fangs show at the edge of his lower lip. "Actually, you had it right the first time. It's nothing more sinister than being behind on rest. May I add that your expectations where my manners are concerned are shockingly low?"

Khajiits aren't visible blushers, but Na'viri still managed to look abashed. "Sorry," she repeated. "I just heard... somewhere... that vampires look less normal when they haven't, ah, eaten in a long time, and, well, you..."

"Whoever told you that was unusually well educated," he remarked. "But when you are as old as I am, it doesn't make much of a difference, sadly. Even vampires cannot be young forever."

"Oh." She seemed more than willing to drop the subject. "Well, why don't you get some sleep? I can keep watch."

Being _asked _to go to sleep was too hard-wired as a trap in his mind to even consider. _How to politely decline?_

"Not for anything," he commented, deftly changing the subject, "but what are you still doing here? I do appreciate company, but I find myself at a loss as to why a young lady like yourself is lingering in a cavern brimming with cadavers."

He wouldn't have been surprised if the wording of his question offended her, but Na'viri seemed more troubled than anything else. "I guess I haven't thought of what to do next."

"In your situation, my first steps would be to leave Fort Hastrel. I suppose there are other ways you could go about it, though."

"Very funny." She gave him a baleful glance. "I don't know where to go from here. My best friend is dead, along with most of my associates. And I'm not sure I have a stomach for leading others to their deaths - I'm not much of a lone fighter, I always travel in groups. And this proves I can't fight worth a damn by myself, if I end up like this after using everyone with me as a shield. I don't think I can do this anymore, and the one person who could have helped me figure myself out was killed by my own shot."

Oh dear. Women working themselves up into a pensive, self-loathing frenzy. He detested what he did not know how to deal with - there were not many things the vampire feared, but this was one of them. Vicente hastily composed some choice words.

"You are really being much too hard on yourself. You were fighting unprepared against odds that wouldn't have necessarily turned out well for somebody much more skilled. Are you simply going to give up? Your friend had a choice, and he gave you your life in exchange for his own. I doubt I have a right to talk here, but as I see it, it's an insult to his memory to simply stop and mourn what happened here. There's always something to return to, always something to forge from the ashes. Everyone has a life they manage to live." He smiled as gently as he could. "Even I do."

_Even though it appears to be coming apart at the seams._

Sometimes, Vicente wished he could believe his own advice.


	14. Things Fall Apart

**Author's Note - I don't own Oblivion (no, really?), and once again, I apologize for the sheer amount of time between updates. Thanks so much for your reviews - they motivate me to get writing like nothing else can, believe me. :D**

**Dreamer - Well, I always assumed first names never really meant much. And he **_**is**_** a shadow - very few people in Cyrodiil ever catch more than a glimpse of him. I agree with the in-game DB - they're hilarious, but at the same time, very cardboard. Which makes me sad, but eh, I guess they were going for the crazy effect. Hmm, really? I'm going to have to go look at what you're talking about. I do third person normally, with first-person italics delineating thoughts.**

**Reva - That isn't actually a bad guess. You're both correct and incorrect, so stay tuned :o And while you will see Na'viri again, I wouldn't consider her a main character like A&V are. At this point, I don't plan on giving her her own parts.**

**DualKatanas - Great to 'see' you again :D And I totally think the Legion consists of pansies. I watch them getting mowed down by wild animals all the time. Nope, Hastrel is northwest of Kvatch. Ash/corpses... I do both. It depends how they die. Wounds, you get a body. Sunlight or fire, you need to sweep your floors. Avielle using that magicka - does she seem the careful and second-guessing type to you? :P You'll see more of the effects later - just know that I'd never give a character seemingly boundless power without some form of consequence. And Na'viri will play a part later on unless I have a drastic change of heart, but you can count on not seeing her for a while.**

**Arty - I really have been busy - haven't been able to write or read, I'm afraid. I'll have a lot of catching up to do when I can, that's for sure. Highwaymen - I think that's relating to the Renrija Krin or whatever they're called, at least in the south. And Vicente always seemed so much more cultured than everyone else in the DB that you meet. And if you were born some 300 years ago, you'd probably have a more genteel manner, wouldn't you? He's fun to write, but I keep having to redo his dialogue to make it sound less modern.**

**Quillweave - Eep, a new reviewer! I hope you like the rest of my story, seeing new readers is always uplifting.**

**Carlotta - Really? I thought that it was written rather shoddily - since I nibbled at it a little at a time, I was constantly scanning for and fixing inconsistencies in setting, tone, et cetera - and I thought it was a little strained. But thank you :D**

**Pandora - Heh, I guess he could. Also, he's Vicente, not Vincente - That's always gotten to me, I love the way Vicente sounds. Is it (vi-CHEN-tae) or (vi-SAHN-tae)? I love them both, but he's not Vincent.**

**Kitsune - I really meant to honor your request, but I kinda got caught up in midterms. So, uh... it's still January! Erm. Yeah, uh. Not for anything, but this is my favorite chapter yet, so I hope you like it too. And abotu descriptions - thanks! Some people tell me I'm too flowery, but I love adjectives so much I could marry one.**

Few people have ever crossed Cyrodiil on foot as quickly as Vicente Valtieri.

Na'viri had offered to travel with him - he couldn't fathom why - which he'd declined on the partially-true grounds of not wanting to tarnish her reputation. Travelling with a vampire, much less a known criminal, was a rather guilty-by-association act. Besides, if she'd known that he was heading to an assassins' den, she probably would have retracted the offer anyway.

So they had parted ways, Na'viri leaving Fort Hastrel in the morning and Vicente after he was reasonably sure the sun had set. Countless days spent in lightless caves and ruins had taught him how to very accurately gauge the time, but he still wasted precious minutes to make sure he erred on caution's side alone.

It was snowing outside, the sky painted dark gray with cloudy twilight. Sithis smiled upon him indeed; the fat flakes fluttering down would cover any tracks, given time. He could probably assume that the guards had lost his trail or been called off, but if somebody within the Brotherhood wanted him dead, bribes and special requests to the Legion were by no means out of the question.

The other time Vicente had been on the run in recent history, he'd cheerfully headed to a then rather disgrunted Janus Hassildor and enjoyed the luxuries of Castle Skingrad for a few days while the guards had fruitlessly searched the city below. But he did not have the time to wait out the storm, and so he travelled as the fugitive did - as quickly and as far from cities as he could. Na'viri's Kvatch he gave a wide berth, traversing the snowbound wilderness between it and Chorrol. The most he saw of Skingrad were the castle's lofty spires beyond the horizon of white-capped trees, the dull crimson towers reaching up to brush the ebony sky. Unwilling to go around the Imperial City and allow a moment to go to waste, he swam the Rumare; from there, he travelled as the crow flies, homing in on Cheydinhal like an arrow rushing towards its mark.

All of this was done under cover of shadow and starlight, hurried bouts of purpose stolen while the merciless sun slept still. Its fiery reign characterized hours, years, aeons of uncertain motionlessness underneath icy stone. Pacing, waiting, wondering... he was grateful to his wet clothes that one morning, as at least his spell-drying provided precious if ephemeral mental oblivion, a meaningless purpose to divert his mind from that one unutterable conclusion... that it was all for naught.

It was all for naught.

0o0o0

Bad luck seemed to follow Avielle around like a portable storm cloud with a bad sense of humor. What had started out as a promising and pleasant trip had gone horribly amiss, and the power that had seemed such a beacon of hope to her was now tainted with fear.

The voices - Avielle hated to call them that, it made her feel like she was losing her sanity - hadn't made a reappearance since the panicked crime scene she'd created. It was partially a relief, but half of her ws waiting for this next hiss, jumping at every whisper of wind and wondering if the suddenly torturous background sounds were real or only inside her head.

If there was one thing that was definitely only within her mind, it was her culpability. Talking wih a mounted guard and casually - she hoped - asking for news had earned her an admiring remark about how some brave adventurer had cremated a notorious trio of bandits. She didn't feel brave. It was like she was contaminaed, carrying some shameful taint inside her, and only she could see the danger within.

Whenever she thought of 'hero', the only image that came to mind were those horribly burnt, annihilated bandits, twisted and defaced like dolls tossed into a fire...

Apparently, there had also been some trouble at Anvil. It was the last thing she needed, more problems in the works... but at this point, fate had been so blatantly inconvenient to her that she wouldn't have been surprised if a Daedric Prince broke into Tamriel and started tearing the province apart.

On second thought, maybe that was pushing it.

The weather was fitful, seeming unable to decide what it wanted to unleash. The sky vacillated from cloudy to clear, and then cloudy again, spitting down sporadic bursts of snow whenever whim struck it. Warm mornings were followed by frigid afternoons, and this confusion only served to add another note of dischord to the mage's travels. Nothing seemed predictable, certain, anymore. Avielle felt like the stone underfoot had turned to quicksand, and the possibility of latent madness shimmered in the snow like a heat haze, gradually gorging itself on the inquiet it created.

The worst part was, she couldn't brush it all off as paranoia, because that was just _another_ aspect of insanity.

Her nights were spent at a variety of quaint inns that dotted Cyrodiil's network of main roads. Little sleep was managed in the face of towering uncertainty - she saw more of the ceiling than the back of her lids.

She had to get to Anvil. Carahil had once seemed like a figure capable of revealing the mysteries of magicka to her, but now the guildhall leader was more like a lifeline she was grasping at. She had to find out what was wrong with herself before things got worse.

Things got worse.

Avielle had just passed through Skingrad and was making her way irritably through a poorly-plowed stretch of the Gold Road. Colovia had clearly seen more snow than Bravil - it was up to her knees, and the Legion was clearly slacking in their duty to keep the roads cleared. She tramped through the deep snow, muttering distinctly blasphemous sentiments under her breath as the cold seeped through her leggings and soaked her shoes.

Unable to even see where the road was, she must have strayed from the path at some point, because the next thing she knew, she was sprawling face-first into the snow. A tree's root had snagged her foot, and her fall had not been cushioned by the soft white blanket that smothered the ground - by pure happenstance, she managed to gash her cheek on a sharp rock that jutted above the snow's surface.

Not for the first time, the girl wondered why she found herself travelling so often when she detested it.

With another series of swear words, Avielle got to her feet. Blood trickled thinly down her face; she could feel the sticky warmth making its way towards her jaw. An inconvenience, perhaps, but at least this was something she knew how to deal with. She called up a minor healing spell to close it, and that's when things took another downwards turn.

At first, the magicka came slowly, normally, as controlled and untaxing as a cantrip of such low caliber should have been. But somewhere along the way of the magical pathways, something snapped, and a tidal wave surged after the trickle. The massive surge of power that jolted every cell in her body was completely unexpected and horribly familiar.

White magic surged outwards in cauls of Restoration flame, their intensity better suited to an attempt at resurrection rather than healing a cut. There was no pain this time, only an overflow of excess magic that sparked off her fingertips and vaporized the ice around her, sublimating it with its intense energy. The scrape on her cheek zipped shut as hastily as one could close a book - the spell went deeper, ferreting out all latent ills from her physical body and fixing them.

It didn't matter that it didn't hurt, because it was morbidly clear to the mage that her feared power had broken through _without her calling on it_.

Before she could ponder this development any further, something hissed inside her head.

_Hello again, Avielle..._

She shut her eyes, gritting her teeth. By the Nines, not this again...

_Go away,_ she thought. _Get out of my head. I'm not insane._

_Ah,_ whispered the voice,_ but if that's the case, why are you talking to yourself?_

_...and steady beats the broken heart, last faithful to what's torn apart,_ came another, singing a snippet of poetry that the mage had heard once ten years ago.

_Murdering her entire family wasn't a part of the contract, ma'am. Business is business, I'm afraid. You should have specified earlier._

They seemed to multiply exponentially, growing more numerous by the second. There was a baby crying, that same crazed laughter from before, and then that horrible, choking scream her mother had made when her final experiment had backfired... Avielle's head felt so crowded that it was fit to burst, like her very self was in danger of being snuffed out under the swarm.

_Isn't power what you wanted?_ purred the first voice, somehow making itself heard above the din. _Everything comes with a price, mage. You know that. Why bother tricking yourself? You were weak when you needed strength, and that strength didn't come out of nowhere. Just accept it... when it comes down to it, you're not really all that different than that Brotherhood you've sworn yourself against. You stopped at nothing for the deaths you seek, sacrificing some aspect of your soul for power-_

Avielle clutched her head as if she could squeeze the madness from it. _Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!_ she screamed inwardly.

There was no answer but a resounding, relieving silence. Slowly, she lowered her hands, then sighed in relief and opened her eyes.

And shrieked.

_Things_ were sprouting up from beneath the snow, ghastly apparitions of tarlike shadows with leering, fanged grins and eyeless sockets. Hooked, spindly claws like talons extended from the emaciated forms, leaving black trails as they scythed through the air like grasping fingers. Their tails were like whips edged with razors, jerking back and forth in the air as they prowled forward.

Avielle yelled and stumbled backwards. A glance over her shoulder made her recoil in the other direction. They were there, too, clawing their way up from the snow like zombies from a grave. Only it wasn't snow anymore - a wave of deep crimson was spreading through it, staining it the color of blood. Terror gripped her like nothing she'd ever felt before. It was beyond rationality. It was pure fear, staking her out like a carrion bird.

It was dead silent; though the beasts' mouths were open to shriek, she could only hear the faint rustle of the breeze. She couldn't smell the blood, couldn't taste its reek in the air... but closer they approached, ebony spikes and spines quivering with what seemed like ravenous excitement.

_Oh, don't worry, mage._ That same voice that seemed to preside over her possible insanity whispered to her suddenly, cadences as smooth as silk. _None of this is real. It's simply what you brought on yourself. If you close your eyes long enough, it'll go away. Maybe. Hehe._

"How did this happen?" Avielle whispered aloud, paralyzed with terror. The shadow-things stalked around her like hounds of hell, vultures circling a target, and logic could not trump the instinctive fear that chilled her to the bone. "How do I make it stop?"

The voice laughed, and suddenly it sounded very familiar, as if it belonged to somebody she'd met briefly before.

_You're asking your schizophrenia for advice? How would I know? I'm not real. You're just crazy._

And then it was all gone - the monsters, the blood, the voices, the tingling traces of magicka from her spell gone terribly awry. It was like time had stopped, her along with it, and the madness had been removed from the scene while she was frozen. One second, she'd been surrounded by shades with their ghastly visages and horrible claws in a crimson-spattered sea, and the next... just pure fields of white snow.

She fell to her knees, overcome with relief. But that relief was bittersweet, and purely on the short term. She wasn't surprised to feel hot wetness streaming down her cheeks, quickly turning cold in the wind.

_What in Oblivion has happened to me?_

0o0o0

All was quiet in Cheydinhal, and Vicente didn't like it.

He knew quiet, knew it well. Quiet was peaceful afternoons, quiet was books and starlight and sleep, quiet was the sound of his unbeating heart. He cherished it... but not this. The stillness hung over the familiar town like death, something stagnant and oppressive that dared the breeze to blow or voices to speak with a bloody axe raised all the while. Nothing stirred under the dark, opaque sky, where bloated clouds shrouded the redeeming stars and moon in their heavy, hopeless shawl.

He felt very alone, as he slipped through the alleyways and empty cobblestone he'd traversed so many times prior. Cheydinhal had changed this one night, betrayed him, turning from a warm and familiar acquaintance to a brooding stranger, something aloof and contemptuous of him. The air itself seemed to hiss with some terrible premonition.

Vicente upheld that mantle of crushing silence as he glided through the tall grass, skirting behind the Mages' Guild - his mind flashed unbidden to a certain face, before returning to the brooding fear that was neither explainable nor in his power to deny. What-ifs and worst case scenarios were rapidly solidifying the spectrum of his expectations, etching sleepless days and nights' worth of worrying into stone. Anything was possible under this dark and unfeeling sky, and his dread only magnified as he approached the archaic well that had masked his home for centuries.

It hit him like a warhammer.

Vicente had scarcely shifted the cap to the well when the smell assaulted him in all its fury, carrying primal and conscious fears alike straight to his mind. The warm air of the Sanctuary below nearly made him stagger back, as heavy and putrid as it was with the reek or poison, blood, and _death_.

Yes, if terror had a scent, this would be it. He _knew_ that stench. All these years later, it still mocked him from his nightmares... and it had stemmed from this very place...

_Sithis, no..._

His own safety was the farthest thing from paramount in the vampire's mind as he dropped down the ladder, nearly forgetting to shut the grating above in his panic. The stench was stronger down here, causing his head to throb with dizzy nausea. There was no mistaking it, no suppressing the memories that ravaged him, shrieking out the chilling likeness between past and present that grew larger with every breath he drew...

_Please, no..._

The first one he saw was Teinaava. He was slumped in his chair, a novel still open in his hands. From this distance, a normal person would have thought the Argonian was sleeping on the job, or still leading his book, albeit languidly. Vicente had no such relief. He could see the lack of breath that should have stirred his chest, feel the stillness that replaced a steady thrum, _taste_ the death in the air, the void where life had once glowed.

_No..._

"Brother," he whispered brokenly, leaning forward to close the Argonian's filmy eyes. He had been dead a long time, long enough for a thin powdering of dust to settle on his scales. No wound marked his body, and his face bore an expression of incomprehensive surprise. Rage kindled in the pit of his stomach as he drew in a sickly sweet undertone he had come to associate with Lucien's fort. _Apples_... yes, his old protegee had held a fondness for poisoning apples, just like in the old children's tale. His eyes drifted to a dusty red fruit that sat innocently on the table, a single bite from reptilian teeth gouged from it. And so wafted the scent of a toxin deadly enough to neutralize any resistance...

A soundless scream echoed in the vampire's head.

_Luciieeennnnn! _

But he had to know, had to be sure that they were gone, that this was real, that he was not trapped in some hideous phatasm from his dreams. He stumbled towards the living quarters, dizzy from rot and blood - pale fingers scrabbled drunkenly for the silver handles, as cold and lifeless as the corpses who now called this place home.

He managed to pull open the door - the old, thick wood portal swung open forcefully, like some furious gust propelled it. A renewed blast of the terrible reek hit him, hot and horrible, as the path to the desecrated family room was revealed.

Complete with the figure standing in the doorway...

"Ravolian," Vicente breathed.

One look at the man was all Vicente needed to know that he was heavily drunk. The cocky, insouciant air was little more than a memory on Ravolian Markaius. Once-shining hair was lank, and his Silencing sword was held listlessly, the bloodstained blade touching the ground. His eyes were glazed and half-lidded, and he was swaying on his feet. But much deeper than that was the dazed look of somebody haunted, somebody having seen something too terrible to be able to accept as reality.

And the reek... beneath the beer, he smelled of guilt. Of murder.

The vampire hissed, a purely animalistic sound, feeling venom welling in his teeth.

"He told me t' do it." The sudden words were slurred, but completely intelligible. In any other time, Vicente would have marvelled at his apprentice's capacity for holding his drink. "Didn't want to. But contract's a contract."

"Lucien chose _you_ to do the Purification? _You? _I cannot believe my Family is dead at the hands of an imbecile such as yourself."

"Kill'd them all," the Imperial continued, that same glazed look in his eyes. He didn't look like Ravolian at all, not with that arrogance about him absent. It was clear that he'd cared about the Brotherhood, enough for his Speaker to tear him apart by issuing that undeniable, unfollowable order. Some of the sweat on his face might have even been tears. "Put th' apples where I w' sh'posed to, kill'd the resht in their shleep. Didn't make a sound, not any of 'em. Jusht like he shaid to..."

Vicente remembered that confusion, that self-denial - the way the world had turned to madness around him, and he, as a vampire, couldn't even access the oblivion that alcohol provided, the distance from self he would have given anything to drown in. It didn't matter. It was done, and empathy was not lessening the core of fury that boiled in his stilled heart.

Ravolian stopped suddenly, peering at the vampire as if just noticing him. "You're sh'posed to be dead. He shaid so. Told me t'wait, anyways. I gotta finish the job."

The sword lunged out with startling suddenness. For all his vampiric reflexes, Vicente barely managed to jerk back in time, flattening himself against the wall. His head snapped up to face Ravolian in shock as he yanked his dagger from its sheath. It was clear that the man was enormously drunk - his breath was thick with alcohol, and he had every reason to lose himself in it - but his attack had been none the less coordinated or slowed.

And that strength... where had that come from? Vicente had sparred with him in the past and knew his power to be impressive, but this... the sheer speed at which he brought down his claymore would have been a difficult thing for _him_ to pull off, and he had all the strength of the undead to aid him.

He hadn't seen Ravolian on the job since his first assignment, and it was only just occurring to him that beneath his idiocy, he was truly skilled in deathcraft.

The younger assassin lunged again, but the vampire was at the ready this time, and rolled forward under the attack; it glanced off the wall. Clearly, his vision was impaired, even if the Imperial's freakish killer instinct was not.

While Ray struggled to regain his balance, the vampire sprung up behind him, fluidly transferring the momentum of his leap to his dagger's slash. But a dagger and a two-handed sword are no even match; Ray, finally jerking his sword back, was easily able to sidestep the attack. He whirled around with another wide swing, and as Vicente ducked, he finally understood. Ravolian was born for the fray and nothing else. The mind-numbing effects of the drink had no claim on his fighting because it was his incorrigible truth, the basest core of his self. Everything in life he blundered through, doing little and understanding nothing. He was only in his element in war.

He was a pitiable, tragic creature, destined to be a puppet of some greater will from the start, his only calling that of senseless, brute force.

The thought of _this _Purifying his Family in Sithis's name was an insult to everything the Brotherhood stood for.

And even deeper did the mockery burrow into his skull. Why was he putting faith in an organisation that preyed on its own children for convenience?

_They promised me they'd never do it again._

The fury in Vicente's chest erupted in a roar as he lunged forth and punched his dagger through Ravolian's chest.

The Imperial froze, jaw slack, as the vampire jerked the bloodied blade from his ribcage and tossed it aside like a piece of refuse. Slowly, almost disbelievingly, he staggered backwards, hitting and sliding down the stone. A smear or blood marked his descent as gravity finally deposited him in a slump at the junction between the wall and floor, still firmly gripping his claymore even in defeat.

He stared up at Vicente with the eyes of a dead man.

"You should've killed me earlier," he slurred. It wasn't a defiant retort, it was a truth, a simple statement of fact - possibly the deepest thing the Imperial had ever said. _You should have killed me earlier, before I had to do this._

And then Ravolian Markaius was dead, dead the way fate had always intended to see him off - finished in the heat of battle, sword in hand as he lay sprawled in his own blood.

Everything seemed very still to the vampire as he gazed down at his Brother's corpse. No, Ray had not died true to form. There was no lounging insouciance, no arrogance, none of the naive love for bloodshed in that final expression. Ray had_ learned_ right before the end, and it somehow served to make the calamity all the more_ wrong._

Slowly, brokenly, Vicente stepped over him and mechanically made his way towards the beds. He didn't want to see, didn't want to know. But he _had_ to.

Strangely, the first thing that struck him about the Living Quarters was that Schemer was absent. The ubiquitous presence of Cyrodiil's only cuddly rat was absent; the rodent must have scurried off in the violence...

And they were dead.

Vicente's heart felt as if it were being strangled and ripped from his chest. The sight was unbearable. What he wouldn't have given at that moment for him to have had it right in the beginning, and for the Brotherhood to deem him and _only him_ as the traitor...

Antoinetta - the lively, childlike Sister whose last words from him had been an angry rant about garlic - was very small in death. She slept curled in a ball, an old habit from her days as an urchin, but that instinctively protective stance had done her little good in the end. M'raaj-Dar's green eyes were open and cross-eyed, staring at the blade that had once gone clear through his heart. Telaendril had fallen prey to the forbidden fruit as had Teinaava, her hands forever pressed to her throat as she choked.

Gogron's death had been the epitome of cowardice. Ravolian had stabbed his closest friend in the jugular while he slept. He could have still been sleeping, green feet hanging over the edge of his bed and eyes closed - but the gory weal through the sinews of his throat told otherwise. The Orc had never felt a thing, and the Brotherhood was familiar with murdering the unaware, but for the pair who detested underhanded combat and loved bloodshed to have killed one another like this seemed the ultimate betrayal.

The vampire had seen enough; he turned and half stumbled, half fled from the massacre. He didn't bother to stop at Ocheeva's room, already knowing what he would see there. He nearly tripped down the stairs to his room, feeling utterly apart from reality. The doors swung open at his touch, and he staggered through.

It was wrong, purely and utterly wrong, to see his room so pristine and _normal_ in spite of the hell his world had become. Seized by a sudden, irrational urge, he drew back his hand and slammed his fist on the table with all his strength, splintering the mahogany and sending stacks of paperwork flying. The shelves were next to go; he flung the antique books of his collection away from him like they had personally done him wrong. Pages as old as he was were torn and shredded, and his storage chest and writing desk met similar fates. But then his eyes fell on his slab, and the weapons rack that lay past it.

Vicente eyed his glass longsword, the tool that had served him so faithfully during numerous assassinations. It was a symbol of the Brotherhood to him, a memento of the death he'd wrought in Sithis's name.

He left it in the dust. It could stay there forever, laid to rest with the rest of the Brotherhood that he loved.

Lucien didn't deserve such a painless ending.

Instead, Vicente lifted the claymore from its stand, feeling the enchantments that swirled inside the aged ebony like a contained tempest. It had seen him through his greatest trials, and he did his Family's memory a disservice if he did not consider avenging them important enough for its blade.

As he strapped the sheath across his back, he noticed he small Elven dagger that he'd picked up months ago. He'd never be able to give it to Ocheeva now... and for what? Why had this all happened? He fingered the blade numbly, not caring when its edge bit into his hands, then pocketed it. A memento, perhaps. Things he could never allow himself to forget.

The forbidden had been done. The cross of blood had been carved into the Sanctuary, _his_ Sanctuary... his only sanctuary. He had been wrong before; it was _easier_ to do the deed yourself, because you could turn the hate inward, keep that quiet self-loathing clawing at your own heart. Now... that fury rose up rekindled, with seven new faces rippling in the flames. Ocheeva. Teinaava. M'raaj-Dar. Gogron. Telaendril. Antoinetta. And even that new, foolish Brother who had joined the Family at the wrong time, doomed to be Lachance's puppet.

He couldn't turn that fury back inside of him. There was only one conduit of vengeance that this teeming eruption of hatred could ever escape through.

Lucien Lachance.

Vicente left the bloodied halls of his only home without a backwards glance. It could fall to Lachance's ruin, for all he cared. His former student poisoned everything he touched. There was nothing left for him there. Screw the Tenets. If Lucien could justify taking seven faithful Brothers and Sisters, then _he_, Vicente Valtieri, could justify _this._

He wasn't the only one who needed revenge as tangibly as he needed blood, and he was a gentleman - how could he justify depriving another of such a vital thing?

There was only one path clear to him now.


	15. Merging Paths

**Author's Note: You guys know you love the bold text. Don't deny it. Here, have the usual 'I don't own Oblivion' and 'Don't murder me in my sleep because this took so long'. I have an apology on my user profile if you want to know why I'm being so slow. Thank you so much, reviewers. Seeing your words just makes my face light up. I'd draw a bunch of hearts, but doesn't like brackets, so less than three to all of you. ...Ye Gads, lot of reviewers. I fear I don't have the space to reply directly to everyone. I'm so sorry if I can't get to you directly, it's just that there's so many now that it's killing my word count. Reply or not, I'm enormously grateful for your reviews. Gods (of reviewing), give me strength.**

**Reva - Ah, somebody who's thinking critically. :D Good, I like that in readers. I'll give you this much - one of your hypotheses is correct. I'll leave it up to you - er, me, for writing - to find out which. And poor Vee indeed. It really goes against the grain to write the Purification, seeing as I've never been able to force myself to do it in-game.**

**Arty - Ahah, it's tempting... I just respond to whatever I feel like, and whatever you explicitly ask me. I actually don't plan on including Sheogorath in this story - I've never been able to find or play Shivering Isles, so I only know what I've read on guidethroughs. Avielle won't be nuts forever, there's a reason she's going mad... Also, I'd like to point out that Ray is -not- the Hero. I mean, yes, he was in the prison... but come on, the gods aren't that stupid. **

**DualKatanas - Firstly, at the favorites - I am completely honored. Thank you. :D Like, seriously. I'm glad you think I'm writing well, and honestly, I'm a bit surprised you didn't seem disbelieving of Ray being able to Purify the Sanctuary. And yeah, angry Vicente... not somebody to annoy. But Avielle's still a firebrand, so... ;D**

**Pandora - That's one of the reasons I started writing this. I adore Vicente, and seeing him die over and over again made me really irritated. It's his time in the spotlight.**

**Dandy - Why thank you! :D You know, I'd actually be grateful if you'd point out spelling errors when you see them. The word program I'm using is archaic, useless, and does not have a spell check, so I often miss those things.**

**Merinda - I tried to shake things up a bit, seeing as half the stories here are retellings of the DB line. And you know, it was reading and reviewing Arty's 'Brothers in Arms' that made me start writing. Deja vu when I read your review - so write, please. I want to see what you come up with. :o**

**Kitsune - Same, Vicente was the one that stood out to me - the one I just **_**couldn't**_** kill. I loved the others, but he was like... (less than three).**

**All right... this isn't my most action-packed or amazing chapter, so I apologize in advance. I have some good material already written down for the next. This is more of a bridge than anything, so sorry :B**

Vicente often considered himself civilized among vampires, but the expression on his face was anything but as he traversed the Black Road. It carried all the baleful ill will of a thunderstorm. He didn't bother to stick to the wilderness. What did it matter if he was caught and strung up by his entrails? His Family was dead. There was nobody waiting for him.

Nobody who was expecting him, anyways.

The dreamlike haze over recent events still hung like poisonous fog in his mind; it had yet to truly sink in. He was doing his best not to dwell on it, that irrevocable knowledge that the world he'd clung to for so long had crumbled under his feet. Instead, his predator's mind focused on one thing and one thing only, a solid, crystal destination planted firmly in the mires of hell.

Because he most certainly had a destination in mind.

His target? The Arcane University... or more accurately, a certain mage that took residence there.

Oh, yes, it would be easier to go directly to Fort Farragut and slaughter his traitorous protegee like the scum he was. But then it would be just another schism in the Brotherhood, another eruption of infighting. An honorable way to go, among shadows.

Lucien deserved anything but honor.

Vicente had many reasons backing up his decided plan of action. Hunting Lachance alone would be foolish for him. As a vampire, he possessed numerous titanic strengths - and just as many debilitating weaknesses that his Speaker knew and could exploit. While he was difficult to harm, Lucien knew exactly how to bring him to his knees, as loath as he was to admit it. Running in for the kill now would be much too predictable regardless. Yes, he needed a new element. A spark.

Avielle Fradaun had fire in her.

She was no assassin, no, she would never be one. Her hatred alone could be used and twisted inward, but that fear she carried with her in life-and-death situations served as the nail in the coffin for that chosen path. But there was potential nonetheless in her, a different sort. Were it to be carefully shaped, molded, and pruned of its incapacitating fear... She had every reason to hate the Brotherhood, and that was without knowing _who_ committed the murder she wished to avenge. She was a useful pawn in this deadly game... but it was more than that, a reason which caused him to subconsciously flinch at the thought of _using_ her rather than providing her a way to get the revenge she wanted.

There was a _reason_ why she had come to mind in the midst of madness, why she had broken through that overwhelming loss, why her face had somehow appeared to him, blocking out the ruined hell his home had become. He couldn't understand _why_ he was fixated on a girl he hadn't seen in months, when his mind had so many other more logical places to leap to. She was not important to him. She couldn't be. And yet, somehow, she seemed both a lifeline and something more, like something he'd lost...

Perhaps, had he looked a little deeper, he would have seen the raw truth. He was stranded and alone, with a death warrant next to his name in two worlds, and his friends lay dead. He was grasping at the strings that still tied him to this world, people who knew him as anything more than a faceless shadow. The number was pitifully small. There was Janus. There was Na'viri. And there was Avielle.

It was sad, and a little frightening, to consider. Of the entire province, there were only three people that knew his name and weren't trying to kill him.

And of those three, he could only really call one a friend.

0o0o0

A mage that cannot use magic is one of the most pitiable sights on Tamriel. For serious magisters, the allure of magicka causes them to invest all time in its study; its convenience makes them all but forget how to perform ordinary tasks in the mundane fashion. Inability to cast spells left even the most venerated sorcerers as clueless and helpless as a newborn kitten.

Avielle took to this new development in her usual charming demeanor - that is to say, with all the grace and finesse of an irritable grizzly with alcohol poisoning.

The truly frustrating aspect of it was that she _could_ still use magicka. The possibilities were there, her power still humming at the ready.

Avielle was not a fool. Her hotheadedness often caused her to rush in without thinking, but she was capable of being quite observant. Signs of her own madness only appeared when she used that strange, uncontrollable magicka. That power was apparently capable of breaking through when she tried to use any kind of spell.

The solution? Not using any spellwork until she figured out what was going on.

Of course, she didn't like it, but if two occurrences - three, if she were to count the first where she'd felt fine - were anything to base a pattern on, things were getting worse with each instance. What if the voices never went away? What if she was stuck seeing those beasts of blood and shadow forever?

Until she got to Anvil, the only thing she had to protect herself with was a small silver dagger she barely knew how to use. The Breton felt small and vulnerable.

For the first time, Avielle thought of glass longswords and swirling cloaks, and how _nice_ it would be if somebody was watching over her.

0o0o0

It was with charm spells at the ready that Vicente stepped into the Arch Mage's nearly empty lobby.

Of course, any good mage would recognize an enthralling from a mile away, and resist the pull. But his ability to tweak dispositions was innate, an offering from the Dark Gift itself. That magic was deeper and much harder to detect.

His hood was, of course, up. While the Mages' Guild was notably more hospitable to his kind than the rest of Tamriel, they were none too fond of vampires, and _probably_ would not be partial to telling him the whereabouts of one of their members.

"Do you know where I can find Avielle Fradaun?" he inquired, voice laced with just enough charm to nullify his hooded visage and overall suspicious demeanor.

Raminus blinked, his head turning a bit foggy from exposure to such an ancient, powerful magicka. It had been a long time since the vampire had had any need to use this particular ability.

"Hi there, ma'am. No access to the Practice Rooms after eight."

Vicente let the charm recede a little so the Imperial could find his brain again. "That's fine and all," he pressed, "but I was wondering if you could please tell me the whereabouts of Avielle Fradaun? I'm an old friend of hers."

That provoked a response - the Master Wizard's face contorted into a disgusted scowl. Charming did often lay bare strong emotions from the affected. "Not here, for sure," he snorted. "Uppity fetcher quit the University ages ago, because of some attack. Threw a tantrum and stormed right out. Good riddance." He added some choice words to clarify his opinion of the girl. "Last I heard, she was doing some fieldwork in Bravil." Some semblance of intelligence returned to his face as the charm wore thin. His scowl morphed into a look of quizzical suspiscion.

"I am sharing classified guild records because... sir, could I behoove you to show your face?"

"No, actually," Vicente said pleasantly, stunning Raminus with a quick jolt of paralysis and leaping for the door, "you couldn't."

By the time the Imperial got to his feet, Vicente was already diving into Lake Rumare.

It was an inconvenience, he mused, but he should have expected it. He knew enough of the girl to know her type, and they had no love for rules and regulations; the Arcane University would have only been in her way. And if he had to chase her through the whole province to find her, well, so be it.

He was made for hunting people.

And so they travelled - the mage by sun and the assassin by starlight, rapidly undoing miles and months worth of distance. Fate was the symphony of the gods - the Nine, the Void, and all whose gaze fell upon Nirn - that drew together two unlikely lives when they no longer had the fortitude to play on alone.

Vicente was redirected once again at Bravil, this time towards Anvil - expected, but unwelcome to his strained patience. His only comfort was that the girl had departed only days ago, and she would probably still be at her destination when he arrived if he was fast enough. Probably.

Avielle was too focused on looking forward to glance back, to guess at the pursuit so far behind. She made her pilgrimage to Anvil for answers, but instead found the unresolved questions of the past.

0o0o0

Vicente arrived at Anvil just before daybreak.

The vampire was not comfortable surrounded by people. He didn't want to stay indoors, or anywhere known to the general populace, for that matter, but he didn't have much of a choice. Dawn was on the horizon, and it was too late to turn back and look for a more remote place to stay. He grimaced. What was with it and his recently-developed habit of reaching destinations _right_ in the nick of time?

It was with a fair amount of caution that he scanned the streets. Few were awake at this grey time, but there were always guards about, and his... debut had been recent enough to still linger in the memories of guards. Why had Avielle chosen this city to run off to, of all places?

He supposed it didn't matter. Shadows such as himself had lost their fearful respect of the law long ago. He knew how to disappear.

A moderate chameleon enchantment glazed his form as he strode briskly across the wooden docks, the smell of salt sharp in his nostrils. If anyone were to glance his way, all he had to do was cease moving and he'd appear nothing more than a trick of the light upon sleepy eyes. The spell was one M'raaj-Dar had created... he scowled again, nails digging into his palms. As much as he tried to hide from it, the unspeakable truth followed him wherever he went, making itself present in everything he saw. The pain was tangible, like a blade had lodged itself in his chest - a blade that twisted slowly, agonizingly, tormenting him with sudden jerks and scraping bone.

But his chiseled face was emotionless beneath the hood as he cautiously opened the door to the Flowing Bowl. The inn was quiet at this twilight hour - only the tavern keeper was in the main room, dazedly scrubbing a stained glass with an even dirtier cloth. He glanced up at the visitor with sleepy eyes, who let the chameleon spell dissipate with a lift of his hand.

He'd left his Septims in the ruined Sanctuary, in his furious need to escape that place. In truth, it hadn't crossed his mind until much later. He certainly had posessed his share of money from contracts and service, but he spent his days underground - he'd had no use for it. Perhaps he still didn't. He was not a creature of money and fair transactions, he was a vampire - since when had he ever cared about laws?

There was nobody to watch him, so he let the full extent of his charm pour into his voice. Charming was not _exactly_ mind control, but with power as deep as his, it was possible to use that dizzying effect to create temporary drones who could easily be bended to one's will, as his recent encounter with Raminus Polus had reminded him.

"May I please rent a room, free of charge?" he asked casually, letting the Wood Elf recieve the full brunt of his magicka.

"Sh're," Maenlorn mumbled tonelessly, slumping forward a little. The tankard fell from his limp hands. "Anythn' fer you, buddy. Third room n'the left."

Vicente frowned. "Do you have something a little more... out of the way? Something private?" he urged.

"There's a bed inna cellar tht's outta use, if'ts what ye want, but s'not exactly comft'rble."

"Thank you, sir. Forget about me; I was not actually here."

"Y'weren' here," he repeated dutifully. "See'n things."

"You don't want to go in the bedroom in the cellar," Vicente advised as he crossed the room, looking for the rather shrouded stairs down in the back of the tavern. "You are currently experiencing a terrible rat problem. But you do not need to worry about it, as you have already called on the Fighters' Guild. They will handle it... tomorrow. Yes, don't expect them to come today. They will be here tomorrow.

"A'right. Kay. Bad rats. You did'n tell me that, 'cause yer not here. N'vr were."

Honestly, charm spells turned people's brains off.

The vampire headed down the stairs quickly, needing to get out of sight before the barman regained his senses. The cellar was drab and dusty - clearly seldom used, which was good. At one of the walls, there were a few wooden doors - he tried them one by one, searching for where he was to stay. The first one led to a nook with a wine rack and the second was stocked with crates that smelled of metal and ceramic, but the third yielded his ill-acquired quarters. It was indeed small; dark and windowless, and completely ideal for him for it. A dirty mirror was set on a very rickety desk, while a bed was nudged into a corner, looking more like it had been shoved there for storage rather than set for use.

Vicente was not used to sleeping in beds. He did not like them. At all.

Glaring at the mattress as if it had done him a personal wrong, he deftly removed it from the bedframe and set it on the floor. It couldn't have gotten any dirtier anyways... the tattered sheets were next to go, left in a neat if not grimy pile.

The frame itself did not look very stable, but he supposed if it could support a mattress, it would manage him. Vampires were not stocky creatures, as a general rule, and Vicente was a fine example of that - despite his maddening strength, he appeared as burly as an archetypal mage. Had his musculature been proportional to his ability to wave swords around and break things, the bed would have been doomed. As things stood, it creaked a bit under his weight as he settled gingerly onto it, but stood firm. It was not quite as good as his slab, but it certainly beat the loathsome squishiness of cushioning, and the ground here was too filthy to consider. He got up again, removing his cloak and setting it on the cleanest place he could find, which was the desk. Untying his hair with a spare hand and tossing the leather strip onto his cloak with uncanny accuracy, he tested the door. There was no lock, so he added one of the magical variety for a precaution.

Suddenly exhausted, he leaned back, then sat down on the bedframe. He couldn't deny feeling a sudden pang of homesickness. Everything had spun so wildly out of control in a few short days... it was hard to absorb, and excruciatingly painful to soak in the truth.

It was unwise to sleep, surrounded by potentially hostile people as he was, but the weariness finally bore down on him, down, down, and perhaps just this once, his mind would afford him a dreamless rest...

_He was walking in a corridor chiselled from grey rock, a hall that was both latently unsettling and very nostalgic. Dim torchlight cast flickering apparitions scurrying across the flagstones like mischevious spirits. The air was warm, familiar. It smelled of dust and stone, of wisdom and sanctity, of leather and steel and wine... it smelled of Family._

_His footsteps sped up, the phantom pulse of his heart quickening. He was home. Everything was as it was - all his fears had been borne from a simple nightmare, a sickening conjuration of his infected mind. He had woken. He was _home.

_It was at nearly a run in which Vicente entered the common room, his long hair loose and whipping about wildly as he swung his head from side to side. The sight which he drunk in was as intoxicating as any vein he'd tapped. No blood, no poison. Just beautifully pure, as pristine as he'd ever remembered it. A rhythmic pounding resonated in the air - the sound of his Siblings hard at practice in the training room - and Teinaava's friendly presence pored over a book in his corner._

_"Brother!" the vampire greeted, giddy with relief._

Thump. Thump. _floated from the training room._

_The Argonian did not glance up - he fiddled with his hood absentmindedly as he turned a page, his tail flicking from side to side. It was if Vicente Valtieri did not exist._

Thump. Thump.

_"Brother?" he tried again, more tentatively._

_Teinaava looked up at him through bloody sockets._

Thump.

_Vicente tried to take a step back, but rigor mortis chose that moment to settle upon him, three hundred years delayed. He could only widen his eyes as the Argonian got to his feet, vermillion scales pattering to the floor in a sickening rain. Crimson liquid streamed from his ruined eyes like tears of ichor. The shedding of scales increased as the skin beneath began to peel away._

Thump. Thump.

_"You haven't got a right to call us your Brothers," slurred a voice behind him. Ravolian's eyes were rolled back to the whites - his mouth was a rictus grin of decayed teeth._

_"Could've stopped it. Could've s'ved us."_

_"Murderer," Antoinetta's sweet, girlish voice came from a mutilated body, her skin rotted away._

_"No - didn't mean - Lucien!" the vampire gabbled frantically, unnatural terror knotting his tongue. He lifted his hands as if to shield himself - and another one grasped it, pallid, slimy fragments of muscle clinging to polished bones._

Thump. Thump. Thump.

_"Die with us," whispered the voice of a Dunmer he hadn't heard in over a century. "Finish your Purification and join us in hell."_

_He knew that voice, knew her face, knew it as he'd ended his Family on the verdict of the Black Hand._

_"You have no one to blame but yourself," the voice continued, giving his hand a gentle, almost sympathetic squeeze. "Poor, poor coward. I trusted you, you know. A Dark Elf whose best friend was a vampire? I defended you, so many times. But you proved my first impressions to be true, right at the end. I wasn't the only one who you tricked into believing that you were worth knowing. They're coming, Valtieri. They're coming."_

_The persistent banging was getting steadily louder, and it occurred to him suddenly, perversely, that it wasn't from the training room at all. It was almost as if it were coming from _beneath_ him..._

Thump! Thump! _Thump!_

_Rotting hands burst from the floor in a shower of slate, reaching, grasping, clinging to his legs and chest and neck, smothering him like the frailest candle flame. "Die with us," they moaned, as they dragged him down, where he was nothing, where the smell of blood and decay overwhelmed him and his lost Families claimed their loveless embrace._

Vicente had long since ceased to scream as he woke.

Even so, his hands tightened into fists at his side, the fingernails biting deep into his palms. For some time, he just gazed up at the ceiling, listening without paying real attention to the tavern ambience overhead.

Slowly, with a deep, shuddering breath, he got up. As painstakingly and gingerly as an old man, he walked over to the dirty mirror and stared into its depths, not realizing how tightly he was gripping the desk until the wood splintered under his hands. He leaned back on the balls of his feet, drawing in another needless breath into dead lungs. The sense of loneliness and terror always managed to follow him from his sleep, and there was no Family to wash it away now.

_Just a nightmare. Not real. They don't... they won't..._

_They would understand._

The vampire shook his head, angry at himself for allowing a dream to upset him this much. He was supposed to be stronger than that - he had to be, for their sakes if not his own. He fitted the mattress and the sheets back onto the bed and tied his hair back, allowing the mechanical motions to soothe his anxiety. His travelling cloak was shrugged on over his 'day' clothes as he dispelled the lock, strode through the cellar, and started to make his way up the stairs. An old grandfather clock stuffed in the corner showed it was well past nine, and taverns were not so rowdy in the morning.

Whether or not he wanted to curl up and hide from the world was irrelevant. He had a mage to find.

0o0o0

"There's nothing wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"There's nothing wrong," Carahil repeated patiently to the incredulous Breton. "You're in excellent health, there's nothing off with your synapses, and your magical power is far from out of the ordinary. I see absolutely no signs of the arcane fortitude you claim to have, and nothing is off-balance with your brain." The Altmer released her tendril of probing magic, folding her hands in a very businesslike fashion. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more pressing matters to deal with."

"How can you possibly tell me I'm perfectly fine when-"

"If you want to find a more qualified healer than myself, by all means, go ahead. But you're out of luck." Carahil cut her off with typical Altmer haughtiness, underlined by old dislike. "I've never heard of anything close to what you're suggesting, and you have absolutely no evidence to back it up. You haven't changed, Fradaun. Always thinking you're right, never caring for anyone but yourself. If you don't mind, I have other things to tend to than your imaginary illnesses."

With that, the High Elf got up and made quite a display of striding off into another room. Avielle, not wanting to be outdone, slammed the door to the Mage's Guild behind her and stormed off into the dark streets.

Damn it all. It was one thing to be told you were sick, yes, but wholly another realm to know you _were_ and then be told you were fine. It lent its own flavor of helpless, panicky frustration to the helpless and panicky frustration she'd been feeling for a while. She was stricken with a brief urge to turn around and introduce Carahil to the truth by using her power to blast her head off.

Then the image of what she'd done to the bandits flared up, and she stumbled, choking a little and tasting bile.

Avielle was not a drinker, but right now, it looked like a welcoming prospect. She was frustrated, wound up, and anxious, and seeking out the nearest tavern seemed like a good idea. She left the more reputable part of town for the docks, making a face at the piscatory air and searching for salvation.

The Flowing Bowl was the first one that appeared to her, so she yanked the door open. It was hardly fit for royalty - the paint was peeling off the walls, and a burly Nord was attempting to crush an Orc with his chair. She briefly hesitated at the doorway, watching the brawl escalate and wondering if this was a bad idea.

_Ah, to hell with it_, she thought, and went to the bartender.

"Something strong," she said, laying five Septims on the counter. "Don't care what."

A very poor choice of words for a customer, but Avielle did not frequent bars. The Bosmer came back with a glass of some sharp-smelling amber liquid that was _not_ worth the gold she'd paid. Going over to a table in the front corner - far away from the scuffle, where a Redguard was trying to get the Nord out of the Orc's headlock - she took a sip and immediately spluttered. It might have been straight alcohol, if not for the color. She forced herself to gulp it down and grimaced. It tasted absolutely appalling. The girl sat down, idly watching the brawl. Wasn't this the part where her head was supposed to go all fuzzy?

With a sigh, she contemplated trying another mouthful of the bilge, then pushed it away. There was a series of sharp raps at the door - a trio of guardsmen had heard the scuffle and came to break it up. She followed them with vacant eyes, allowing the pointless event to soak up her full attention. Two sips of extremely questionable drink was not enough to drown in, but there was something nonchalant and detached about the atmosphere that lent a similar effect just by being there.

"Hey there," grunted an Imperial, sidling up to her with a drunken, stumbling gait. "You taken?"

"Shove it," she declined as gracefully as he'd posed the question, picking up her glass and jerking it. Half of its contents sloshed over the rim and splattered his shirt. He yelled once and staggered away towards the washroom, dripping enormously.

The guards had successfully parted the fight; they were now ordering drinks from the Wood Elf innkeeper. For their sakes, Avielle hoped they didn't order the same stuff she had.

She shivered then, as a hand came down on her shoulder - not opressively, but still firm. She whirled around in her seat, an "I told you, I'm not going to date-" forming on her lips and never reaching its close, lain to rest at the sheer efficacy of a single glance.

It was _him_.

He was exactly as she remembered, so unchanged from their last encounter that he could have been plucked straight from her memory. But at the same time, there was just a whit of difference that served to prove his reality. The warm tavern light played strangely upon the sable silk of his cloak, and a different hilt carried his sheathed weapon, slung across his back like a staff rather than carried at his side. _What_ he was doing here, _how _he had found her, and _why_ he appeared now when she'd never reneged on their deal all whirled through her mind like the shivering flurries of snow outside, all overpowered by the simple fact that Vicente was here, lifting his hood just enough to show his shadowy, cadaverous features as he whispered, "We need to talk."

Something about his voice caused everything to hit Avielle very quickly - the old terror in which he'd appeared, the fury she had for his alignment, and the morbidity of his state. It unlocked her tongue as quickly as it had been tied, and imbued it with hot anger.

"What the hell do you want with me?" she snarled, pushing her chair back in preparation to stand.

But even as she looked, there was something downright amiss with the vampire's features. The usual composure was destroyed; the wry humor was gone from his eyes, leaving them empty. A sunset reflected in mirrors, lakes of blood... but flat. Like something deep within them had been uprooted, something vital, leaving the razed remains to fold in on themselves.

She knew the feeling.

His words were flat, too, his velvety cadences withering roses.

"The name of the man that killed your father is Lucien Lachance."


	16. Getting Acquainted

**I haven't turned into Bethesda since I last wrote. Weird, isn't it? Oh yeah. Random AN - I'm thinking of writing a Ray ministory at some point. I mean, he was just too funny to kill off like that. Ideas? Thoughts? Want to use him in something else?**

**Merinda - Please do write. :P It took quite a bit of wheedling from Arty to finally get me to write, and hey, you people seem to like hearing me ramble, so let's hear yours! :D Honestly, it can't hurt. (Unless you kill off Vicente and/or Janus during the course of your story, in which I will have to murder you in your sleep, but hey, occupational hazard) As for magicka... wait and see ;)**

**Kitsune - I sorry! D: Um so like yeah, here you go. Peace offering chappie? I just had to end it there, else it would have taken me about another week to get that up.**

**DualKatanas - KOTOR omg :D Lovelovelove. Especially Atton in the second, but um. Yeah, I digress. And with mages, I meant the kind of noobs that are walking around the university. (I know you're thinking Gorgoth. Who could still kill you several thousand different ways without magic) Battlemages have other things to fall back on. And it was night - taverns were not so rowdy was referring to earlier, when he heard taverny sounds overhead. Lastly, brawl? I was thinking of Gorgoth. At first, the Orc started it, but when I wrote the headlock part, I swapped roles. :P **

**Arty - I'm sorry for not reviewing, I've just been very bound for time lately. Physics and APs and Calc - oh my! Anyway, I dislike when people just copy and paste one of the random vampire nightmares into a story (seriously, you have the same ten dreams over and over again?), so I tried to create what seemed like the most poignant possible one for him at the time. I can pull off fillers? Yaaay! I hope I can keep that up. Ew, my cat just licked my foot.**

**Hoodedmage - Why will nobody ever tell me where those spelling errors **_**are**_**, though? :( I know my British/American spellings tend to be a bit inconsistent, but typoes I hate with a passion. And thanks :D Hackdirt? That's a good idea, but I didn't plan on putting them anywhere near Chorrol. Hmm...**

**Aino: Thanks! Wow, I'd have trouble reading a story in a language I'm not familiar with. :o And you're right, that's what happened.**

Avielle stared at his shaded, hidden features for a very heavy moment, remembering words spoken what seemed like aeons ago.

_"Tell me who killed my father."_

_"I could, but if I did, you'd attempt to claim your revenge on him."_

_"Don't you think I deserve it?"_

_"Perhaps, but the man you intend to slay is my Brother..."_

He'd spoken calmly, mockingly, denying her something she _needed_ with blazing intensity as he watched with a twisted half-smirk on his thin lips. And here he was, months later, springing from her past to deliver the answer to a question spoken, unfulfilled, and given up for lost seasons ago.

"Lucien... Lachance," she tested, as if trying the name out for size. Then she looked up, blue eyes cold with suspicion. "Why are you telling me this?"

The flat garnet eyes flickered for a moment among the shadows of his face, like embers smoldering amongst coals. "You could say that things have changed since we last parted," he allowed evasively, after a moment's enigmatic pause.

"Such as?" Avielle pressed. While in truth it was uninterrupted, the bustle of the Flowing Bowl around them seemed to have fallen still. For all she knew, this was a trap - laid for what purpose, she had no idea, but it simply didn't make sense for the assassin to reappear suddenly several months later, incriminating a cohort he'd previously defended. Hadn't he said it was his brother, or was that just a mocking formality of a real family that the Dark Brotherhood used?

Vicente had no interest in talking about it. "Things no longer stand with us as they once did. Lucien Lachance has fallen out of my favor, rather irrevocably."

"You know, you could just give me a straight -"

"It's him!"

"The assassin!"

"Don't move!"

Both Bretons froze, heads snapping up; Avielle with confusion and Vicente silently cursing his carelessness. In his shock at finding his quarry right under his nose, he'd completely ignored the table of Anvil guardsmen seated nearby. A complete failure to scan his surroundings, one of the simplest rules of his trade forgotten. There really was no excuse for it... mistakes like that could get him killed.

Ignoring the demand, the vampire was on his feet before anyone could so much as bat an eye. The tavern was suddenly deathly silent, save for the rasp of three unsheathing blades - everyone's focus was drawn to the scene. It was painfully obvious that what was unfolding was no mere barside brawl - if for nothing else, because the cloaked stranger had no reaction to the soldiers' aggression, simply eyeing them with an expression of disdainful boredom. The slim figure in black seemed to radiate a chill, an intangible aura of peril and alarm. He made no move to draw his own weapon, seeming all the more quietly dangerous because of it.

"I must warn you, I'm far better armed than last time," Vicente said casually to the guards, his tone more suitable for discussing politics or the time of day. "I'm really willing to be peaceable if you'd be so kind as to back down."

Shockingly, this truce was not taken seriously. One of the guards, a sandy-haired man with a very puckered face, seemed to finally notice that there was a young woman in close proximity to the criminal. "Get away, miss! That man is a known vampire and wanted for murder!"

Vicente was struck with sudden inspiration.

More for show than effectiveness, he grabbed Avielle and called on as much of his vampiric alacrity as he safely could. It tied up one arm, and her staff dug into his upper ribs, but otherwise she was barely a hindrance to him. Behind the guards, panic was starting to break out among the taverngoers.

He was their fear, and that was _extremely_ malleable.

A startled mage held under one arm like a ragdoll, he sprang up and did a backwards somersault over the table, coming against the wall. He plunged his free hand into his belt and grasped the Elven dagger secured there, pulling it out of its sheath to Avielle's startled throat with one fluid swipe.

"Let me through," he growled, in his best feral-and-threatening voice, "or the girl dies."

The girl, having no idea what was going on, ad-libbed an extremely convincing act of a terrified hostage, perhaps with a little more furious indignance than any damsel in distress should have displayed. Still, the performance was genuine, which really only served to help his case.

The men hesitated, and he made a show of flicking the blade closer to her neck. He was careful not to spill her blood; he hadn't fed since his last confrontation in Anvil, and he needed his mind in full alertness. Still, none of the onlookers recognized his act for the farce it was. After a few drawn-out moments, the first guard slowly angled his sword to the floor, allowing the others to quickly follow suit without fear of blame in case anything went wrong.

Vicente was not ready to relinquish his bargaining chip. He dashed forward the instant their swords were out of poise, using he free elbow to shove open a path to the door. With no hands unoccupied to open it, he plunged his dagger in the door's side, the elven-tempered metal easily breaking the clutch. He kicked the door open and burst into the night.

Avielle was screaming distinctly blasphemous sentiments at him - expected, but morbidly inconvenient, perhaps even moreso for that he couldn't decapitate the source of such ungodly noise as he was used to doing. A terse 'Please, be quiet!' went unheeded. He skimmed across the docks like a cliff racer among clouds, ignoring the shocked sailors and shouting civilians. With the girl shrieking like a wounded clannfear, there wasn't a snowball's chance in Oblivion for him to hide - he had to get away from the city. His cloak flapped in the wind in an ironic parody of a bat's wings as he ran; he jerked the dagger back into his belt, deciding a free hand for spells was more useful than a dagger whose grip he was unaccustomed to.

The lighthouse was rapidly getting closer, the last thing before the open fields were his.

And there was always a guard posted at the lighthouse...

It was just the sea, the winding fence, and the city ramparts, with one narrow opening of passage. Vicente could smell the subtle tinge of trepidation as the man observed a vampire running towards him at full tilt, but he valiantly held his ground in the center of the gap. The assassin could skirt around the guard easily enough, but then he'd be at the mercy of his sword's range. He wasn't able to pull out his claymore to fight with, not while he was carrying an unwilling passenger and time was dearly of the essence. He could keep ahead of human pursuit while in motion, but any stopping could cost him his escape.

At about ten strides away, Vicente feinted to the left, then dodged to his right, switching back to the left at the last possible moment. The soldier was flustered but determined, and his strike was well-aimed, if not a second delayed past its full potential. It was a smart move - he could not risk hitting the hostage, so he slashed low, intending to cripple his foe's mobility.

One might have thought Vicente Valtieri as having a bit of a God complex, even for an assassin. He treated every situation with the same outward unaffected demeanor, and despite his immense stamina, he never wore armor - as easily as he could have carried a suit of metal, the only covering he sported was a travelling cloak and some simple garments beneath. His boots were barely more protective than a pair of shoes, crafted from simple leather.

One might have thought.

But Vicente was, while well aware of his capabilities, not overconfident in the least. He shunned armor not out of a notion of immortality - or at least invincibility - but because his fighting style of choice relied heavily on his own agility and unimpaired movement, letting speed be his ward. And when a blade came too close to evade, well...

He hiked up his left leg as the guard swiped at him, putting the ankle in jeopardy rather than the intended calf.

The sword collided with his boot with a distinctly un-leatherlike clang and glanced off. Vicente followed this up with an almost casual kick to the groin, and then he was gone, dashing through a snowy plain with a still-complaining Avielle in his grasp.

To the guard, now doubled over and gasping, it appeared as though the vampire had truly been unkillable. A clean shot at an opportune and unguarded area had merely cut the leather.

While it was correct that vampires - especially underfed ones like Vicente was at present - had a natural resistance to weapons not imbued with magicka, it wouldn't have protected him from nearly losing his foot.

The truth was, Vicente's rather dapper-looking boots were not exactly standard issue. Three hundred years of existence had lent him his fair share of experiences, and this particular trick had been gleaned from the Nordic tribe he'd encountered on his brief stint in Solstheim, before continuing his trek west from Vvardenfell to Cyrodiil. From the inside and outside alike, they appeared completely unassuming, the sort of thing he would have difficulty trying to sell for over ten septims. But the reality, and ingenuity, was revealed if one tried to pick them up.

Inside the sheets of leather, the footgear was inlaid with thick bands of angled and heavily refined steel, custom-placed to protect tendons and vital points. The leather served several purposes - comfort at rest, surprise in a fight, and flexibility while hiding, as it muffled the metal when sneaking, still allowing for quiet footsteps in spite of the pair's heaviness. When slashed with any sort of weapon, the facetted and extra-durable steel was there to deflect it, protecting the wearer and throwing the opponent off-kilter. Only the strongest and most confident Nordic warriors had worn such gear on their raids; the thickness of the metal alloy was much greater than a pair of all-steel boots, and the placement made them unwieldy and off-balance for somebody not strong enough to constantly correct their posture. To him, walking around in them was as simple as with any other footgear. Avielle probably wouldn't have been able to lift her feet in them.

Avielle, however, was not attempting to steal a vampire's boots. She was instead under an arm, screaming so loudly that the vampire in question was forced to flick a Silence spell at her.

"Stop trying to get me captured," he hissed. "It's not to your benefit."

The mage continued to open and close her mouth uselessly for a few seconds more, then resorted to wild struggling. Vicente didn't bother to tighten his grip.

Instead, he glanced back over his shoulder, and swore softly. He couldn't see guards, not yet, but the snow was fresh. His footprints were laid bare to whomever wished to track him.

Of course, he was carrying a mage... but at the moment, lack of cooperation and Silencing rendered her rather useless.

He did not know much of telekinesis, and the only spell of it he'd ever bothered to learn was pitifully novice levelled, but it was worth a go. He lifted a hand, a thin purple mist starting to swirl around his fingers. He felt Avielle cease her flailing for a moment, probably wondering what he was about to do. After focusing it as well as he could, he both released and held onto the spell, keeping the flow of power steady.

It was a useful trick. Within a good ten-meter radius, the snow around him shifted as if in a wind, filling in his tracks as he ran and erasing all signs of his disturbance. It would look as though he'd simply disappeared, in the eyes of his pursuit.

It was exactly the sort of sleight of hand he'd have shared with his Family when he returned home.

He gritted his teeth - a bad move for any vampire - painfully stabbing into his lower lip, and bore forward with all the speed he could muster. Avielle would have screamed at the renewed run, being carried offhandedly while moving faster than a well-bred black horse, but made do with thrashing until all but incapacitated herself with dizziness.

Vicente tried to focus on the telekinetic spell, on the eddies of snow darting around his feet, but simply couldn't. Every path of thought, every sight and sound and sensation, seemed to have been directly tied back to some memory of the Sanctuary, the horrible truth that he would never outrun. The moonlit whiteness underfoot... he'd once taken Antoinetta out to show her Cheydinhal, during the winter she'd joined the Sanctuary as a starving and gaunt-faced child. The warmth that spread from Avielle's living body to his cold one could have been from any of them, how they'd sat in the common room and swapped stories and laughed together. All gone now, just another memory to file in the back of his mind, another closed era of his endless timeline... It filled him with an overwhelming, painful emotion that he was unable to identify, something that needed escape but had no satisfying way of doing so.

He channeled that ferocity into raw speed, and the whitecapped coastal fields passed by as a blur. Fort Strand's crumbling towers shone ahead like jagged spires against the faded indigo sky - a monument he'd seen only days ago, when his world had still clung to hope amidst panic and he'd believed he'd had a home to go back to...

It occurred to him through the memories that despite exiting Anvil in different places, he was taking the exact same route out as he had a week prior. Getting caught twice in such a short span of time... excuses be damned, he was slipping, even if he'd been sold out the first time and a mess the second. He needed to get his act together, or he'd be ash on the wind before he even got to Lucien.

And the first order of getting back on track was to shake things up. Taking the same escape route was fine, so long as nobody actually saw you use that path. It was the first place guards would look, save recent sightings or tip-offs. And Vicente hadn't covered his tracks as thoroughly as he should have, given his haste. It was always safer to err on the side of caution, and the question of 'where to' lingered in the air. He briefly toyed heading south - the Anvil guard wouldn't follow him into Valenwood unless they'd literally seen him crossing the border - but the Wood Elf province was a dangerous place, brimming with old, wild magics, and he didn't want to traverse the labyrinthine forests for the first time without a map. Cutting straight north again was a trick he'd already played, and the seaside fields below the Gold Road were both lacking in shelter and riddled with bandit camps.

A smile almost formed on his lips; tugging once in vain, then abandoning the pursuit. The idea would either guarantee him an easy and unhindered trip, or be completely suicidal.

What kind of outlaw would travel on the road?

Not crossing it at points here and there, no, but almost invariably following it from Anvil to Cheydinhal, and Lucien's fort from there. He had charm and invisibility at the ready to beguile any patrolling Legionnaires, and Avielle was a mage - it was reasonable to assume she could do the same. The girl was probably unused to travelling on the rough, so following the road might help her agreeability as an added bonus.

It was viable simply because it was the last place guards would actively search for him. Effectively, it was hiding in plain sight.

The stars served as his compass as he angled northeast. Pursuit was still too close for comfort, and he wanted to gain more ground between Anvil and himself before reaching such a risky destination. His wandering mind touched down upon the strain of maintaining two spells at once was beginning to gnaw at him. Under his arm, Avielle had given up her struggle, likely having tired herself out.

Vicente glanced down at the mage, who was attempting to melt his brains through pure animosity. "If I were to release the Silencing spell, would you kindly _not_ start up that yelling again?"

The girl replied by freeing her right arm and giving him an obscene hand gesture.

He sighed. "And here I thought you liked to talk. Ah, well. I can keep this up for a long time."

The hand gesture was dropped immediately, replaced by a more intent stare after a few seconds of thought.

"Hmm," the vampire pondered sarcastically. "I wonder if I should offer again, out of sheer generosity. I will release the spell, and you will remain quiet, unless you have actual conversation. Continue to irk me after this and I will simply knock you out. Do we have a deal?"

Avielle nodded vigorously.

"Very well, then. Do not give either of us cause for regret... " He let the illusion magic slip from his ethereal grasp and trickle to a halt - immediately, the telekinetic spell flared with undiluted power.

"Aaah," the girl immediately tested, before blushing slightly with embarassment. Vicente felt his canines tingle in response to the blood flaming in her cheeks, all the brighter for the snowy backdrop. Purely exquisite... he steadied himself and pulled his thirst back under control. After all, he'd already accidentally bitten her once - a repeat performance would make for absolutely calimitous first impressions.

"Will you _please_ put me down?" she grunted. To her credit, being carried around like luggage by a rather bony vampire was far from comfortable.

"My apologies, but unless you can bolster your speed to match mine, no, I will not. Later, perhaps."

Avielle was somewhat proficient in fortification - not enough to keep up with a vampire, but enough to stubbornly try - but dropped the argument when she remembered she was in no position to use magicka, a fact that was only just resurfacing over the rather momentous events of the night.

Nonetheless, she was by no means running low on moot points to argue.

"What the hell was this about, anyways? What do you think you're doing?"

"Oh, I don't know. I just felt like kidnapping some young maiden for a midnight stroll and infuriating Anvil's watch on the side," he deadpanned. "Why, is something wrong?"

Vicente was not usually so acidic, but to describe his current mood as 'stressed out' would have been painfully euphemistic. Avielle was briefly impressed with the statement, but it was not long before that flickering sentiment was reburied beneath her persistent wariness and enmity. After all, he was avoiding her question.

"As charming as this little discussion is," he continued drolly, "I would prefer if we could continue it when I'm confident of having shaken my pursuit. Maintaining this spell requires some concentration, and I would much rather hold a conversation eye to eye either way."

"More like you want to think of what lies to give me," the mage muttered, but obediently fell silent. In truth, she was more than a little intimidated by the vampiric assassin; seeing how effortlessly he'd danced around a contingent of armed guards had only reinforced her old mixture of fear and awe.

Avielle was incapable of remaining quiet for long, though. After a quarter of an hour's dreamlike rush through a snowy landscape, pressed against a body that was unnaturally cold and watching eddies of Mysticism magicka shiver on the air, she was unable to keep her tongue still. "Where are you going, anyways?"

He didn't respond immediately; perhaps another half of a minute elapsed before his breakneck pace began to subside. "There," he said simply, gesturing ahead - she followed his hand and then realized that the road was ahead, past the snow.

"You're just going to waltz onto the Gold R-oomph!"

The exclamation was more surprise than discomfort, for Avielle had not been expecting Vicente to suddenly deposit her on her feet. Without even thinking about it, she followed him towards the cobblestone path, struggling to keep up with his brisk stride. As soon as they were on the road, the assassin released his spell. Avielle looked at him questioningly.

"We should be safe now," he said, face fathomless as he glanced around for travellers or pursuit, then pulled his hood back down, masking his face once more. "Footsteps here could belong to anyone."

"Is this the part where you're going to answer my questions?"

He began to follow the path east; there was a certain terse quality to his footsteps. "I suppose so, yes."

Avielle chased after him. "All right. Talk. Now."

The vampire dipped his head. "To continue where we left off-"

"Left off?" The girl's tone was incredulous. "Is that what you call 'leaving off'? Do you have soldiers chasing after you on a daily basis?"

"Please. There were many less... ethical ways I could have dealt with that situation."

"Kidnapping and using me as a hostage isn't exactly what I call ethical! What would have happened if those guards hadn't let you through? What would you have done to me then?"

Vicente gave a single breath of a harsh laugh, the sort of laugh that lacks any real humor to it. "It works every time."

"And if it hadn't?"

He cocked an eyebrow at the enraged Breton. "You really have no eye for sublety, do you?"

"That was hardly subtle," she spat back.

"No, no, I assure you it was. Did you really think I would have slit your throat after coming all this way to find you? If I actually intended to kill you, you'd already be dead. For a mage, I must admit, you aren't striking me as terribly perceptive. That little display back there may have been a ticket out, but it's also an excuse for a respectable young woman like yourself to be caught with a known criminal and vampire. If anyone asks, you're travelling with me under threat of death."

The mage squinted. "_Am_ I with you under a death threat?"

Vicente toyed with the idea of giving her a 'maybe' and a fanged grin, but decided he wasn't in a good enough mood to play.

"No," he said evenly. "Honestly, you could run off now screaming Lachance's name to every person you meet, and I wouldn't dredge up the effort to care. If your priorities have changed, then go on ahead with your life. But if that's what you plan on doing, do not expect to ever see me again, nor a glimpse of anyone who would help you with claiming your revenge, or even be able to find him. If you leave, consider that opportunity forever closed to you."

Avielle was silent, thinking.

"How do I know this is legit?" she finally said, looking up, away from him. "For all I know, you're just dragging me into some of your sick Brotherhood business."

Well, at least she had _some_ caution under her coarse demeanor. "Don't get me wrong. I could kill Lachance myself." Almost true. "Easily." Less so. "It just happens to be that when... certain events were revealed to me, and I decided he could only ever pay for them with his life, it occurred to me that I was not the only one whom the Speaker of Cheydinhal had... wronged, unforgivably so. I will not lie to you; your father's death is not scandalous in my eyes, but I do understand that I have gradually become terribly desensitized to such matters. I sought you out because I remember what it feels to hate as strongly as you do. Who am I to deny you its appeasement? I would swear an oath to Sithis, but I feel as though you would not take well to that. So, Avielle, I swear on everything I have ever held dear that Lucien Lachance was the man that murdered Jules Fradaun, and that I searched for you solely to offer you my aid in ending his life."

It was enough of the truth, anyways.

"Can you at least explain to me who he is? I know you were the one who let him into your sick assassins' cult, but you haven't given me anything more than a name."

"I did not invite him into the Brotherhood, I simply passed him the opening contract," Vicente corrected. "He was once my student, but that means little - every Brother and Sister who resided in my Sanctuary for the last century can say the same. Lachance... I do not know his true surname, as he changed it to 'the luck' before he joined our ranks. And luck did seem to follow him... He is an Imperial, and possibly the most apathetic, cunning, and untrustworthy man you'll ever have the misfortune of meeting. He also is - was - my superior, being the Speaker of the Cheydinhal branch of the Brotherhood."

Quietly, Avielle wondered exactly what was going on if the assassin had no qualms about telling her where his cult's safe house was located. Wasn't he only upset with one man? He was baring their base of operations to her with that statement, however vaguely. _She_ wanted to slaughter the entire lot of them, and here it was; location, location.

"I want to kill this Lachance freak, don't get me wrong..." Avielle's words came slowly, under the burden of all the information she was suddenly processing. "But I don't like you. You've saved me enough times for me to not hate you outright, but there's a lot about you I don't think I can forgive. I mean, you're a fetching _vampire_, for Mara's sake."

He gave her a sideways glance, his lips curving into a smirk. "Afraid that I'm going to bite you? Refrain from sneaking up on me - not an easy feat to accomplish anyway - and you will be fine, I assure you."

"That's not the point. I don't _want_ to travel with you."

"I don't have to take you." He looked away, still keeping her in the corners of his eyes. "I simply feel as though you're entitled to your revenge. And if you go haring off after the Speaker, I guarantee you'll be dead before you can comprehend his blade in your spine. Take my advice, Avielle. When you're as old as I am, you become familiar - and increasingly unimpressed - with the types of people in this world. So if _I_ say somebody is dangerous, you'd best believe it."

"Like hell I will," Avielle muttered. "I don't even know why you're going after the guy. Did he get blood on your favorite cape or something?"

She saw him flinch. It was momentary, infinitesimal, and yet she knew she'd struck a nerve for_ anything_ to claw through the vampire's ubiquitous calm. His reply was flavorless, betraying no emotion - perhaps even a shade_ too _dead. "Something like that."

"Did he break that sword of yours?" She continued to toy with the apparent chink in his armor as they walked, a kitten prodding at a sleeping wolf. Vicente didn't reply.

"Misplace your collection of human skulls?" The vampire's shoulders tensed, but he didn't answer.

"Did he steal your girlfriend?" Avielle mocked, determined to get a response. "No, wait, you're an undead monster - you wouldn't have any dates to begin-"

The next thing she knew, her feet were no longer touching the ground. A cold hand held her by the throat, and she was suddenly level with two blazing crimson eyes, alive with a sort of inexpressable fury that almost bordered on the unhinged. She tried to gasp, but the bony fingers around her neck tightened, cutting off all sound. Vicente's lips were drawn back in a snarl, baring his elongated fangs. Avielle had never met a vampire that was _not_ on their best behavior, and the bestial display all but paralyzed her with terror.

"By _Sithis,_ girl," he hissed, "drop the subject, _now,_ or I'll teach you what it means to _truly_ be a hostage of mine."

In any other situation, the mage would have retorted, tossing some acidic remark about him _really_ not being able to get a date or whatnot. But the _eyes..._ they burned with such deadly fire that she found herself transfixed with fear, unable to turn away as she struggled painfully for air.

And then the hand was gone, fingers uncurling in a single abrupt, flicking motion. She fell to the ground on her knees, clutching at the sore skin on her neck and gasping for breath. Vicente gazed down at her dispassionately, his typical courtesy absent. After some time, he turned back to face the horizon.

"You're used to people bearing that attitude of yours. I am, for my own reasons, somewhat _aggravated_ at the moment. I do not _need_ your help. And, as I am quite sure you're aware of, I am a vampire and an unscrupulous killer. For the love of Sithis, learn how to hold your tongue!"

Avielle was silent.

A trace of a bleak, humorless smile twisted the assassin's lips. "Good, you're learning."

Another minute passed, the mage shuddering quietly on the ground and the vampire pointedly ignoring her, before the silence was broken. "Come on," Vicente said flatly. "I cannot afford to dawdle at the moment."

"I..." Leaving the chat on that note didn't seem right to Avielle, but she had no experience in apologies. It came out as more of a question than an apology as she gingerly got to her feet. "I'm sorry?"

He didn't show it, but the simple phrase of regret greatly surprised Vicente. Whether or not she really meant it or was just trying to get on better ground with him was ambiguous, but it had been a long time since any living person outside the Brotherhood had considered him human enough to apologize to. Perhaps fear wasn't the best foundation for this relationship - no, it definitely was not - but she'd _dared_ belittle the deaths of those he'd cherished so dearly...

Which raised the question; did he forgive her for it?

She hadn't known what she was getting at, true, but he found that he couldn't. Not yet, in any case.

"Perhaps someday, I will tell you why I believe the Speaker deserves the most painful and drawn-out death known to man," he began. "Until then, I advise you leave the subject where it is; that is to say, in the dust. Now come on."

She followed him as he set off again; there was a certain hesitant quality to her footfalls, like some question lingered at the tip of her tongue. He sighed. "Spit it out. Unless you want to know what happened. In that case, say no more."

Being called out on a question she hadn't made any move to ask surprised Avielle, but she did her best to hide the reaction; she could already guess that this was something she'd have to get used to. She fidgeted for a moment, unsure how to phrase it and afraid of another outburst. But she _did_ want to understand the scope of the event, at least.

"...Did it hurt?" she finally asked, timidly.

Again, the vampire was thrown by her question. It was clear that she'd meant hurt in the psychological sense, not physically. Either he'd just terrified her to the breaking point, or he really _didn't_ know much about her, the Avielle beyond what he had observed. He felt his disposition soften a little towards her, but kept that hidden behind his still-smoldering anger.

"Ah, and here we breach another lovely stigma of the vampire stereotype. I may not be human, Avielle, but I am just as capable of emotions as you are. Did it hurt? Moreso, I daresay, than losing a pile of skulls I never owned, or breaking a piece of equipment that I could easily replace."

She flinched at the bite to his tone; the moment of almost-empathy was gone, and they were silent for another stretch of time.

Now that they were far enough from the seaside, the true nature of a winter night was beginning to set in; the sky overhead was clear, the moon sharp and defined, but the air was frigid. A gust of wind whistled across the road, lifting of silvery sheets of snowflakes along with it.

Against her will, Avielle shivered.

"Cold?" he asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

"My coat is still at the tavern," she bristled, somewhat accusingly. "Somehow, I d-don't think you're going b-back for it."

_Damn,_ she thought. _Chattering teeth 1, bravado 0._

Without so much as looking her way, the vampire shrugged off his travelling cloak, rolling his shoulders to slide it off and grasp it in one hand. Avielle gasped; for one rather stupid moment, she realized that she hadn't even pondered the thought of Vicente wearing anything _under_ the robe she'd always seen him in, but fears of encountering a nude vampire were quickly quelled. Beneath the cloak, he wore a simple set of dark clothing. It was rather old-fashioned, but very neat. He seemed to like the color black - a sable long-sleeved shirt overlaid with a charcoal-colored vest covered his torso, contrasting strongly with the ivory skin of his hands, and his pants were of the same color, flaring widely near his boots. A rather aged-looking gold pendant lent a lone splash of color to his figure, hanging closely beneath his chin. With the hood removed, his ponytail was entirely unobscured; the dark brown hair was very long, tied back with a simple strip of faded tan leather.

"Here. But I expect it returned immediately if anyone approaches."

She was so absorbed in trying to reconcile this new image that she didn't see Vicente toss the cloak at her. She fumbled upon seeing a dark bundle flying at her from the side, and barely managed to catch it.

"Er, thanks." She slid it over her shoulders, stuffing her arms into the sleeves and clutching the fabric around her. It was much too large, but she didn't care - it did an excellent job of keeping the wind at bay.

Her first impression was that it had a faint but distinct smell to it; not blood and metal, as she might have expected an assassin's cloak to reek of. Instead, the scent was oddly refreshing; a mixture of dust, like the air of an old and familiar library, and something citrusy. The fabric was silky and definitely more comfortable than most travelling gear she'd seen. It felt strange - it took Avielle a moment to realize that that was because it was cold, despite having just been worn by someone else.

There was a small slit on the right sleeve; a very neat cut near the shoulder, as if a blade had been drawn across it. It had to have been recent, for the rip was not yet frayed - a glance over at the vampire showed that there was a matching incision on the fabric of his shirt, almost covered by the vest. Oddly enough, the exposed skin didn't appear wounded at all.

Which reminded her...

"How did the guards recognize you in Anvil? I heard that there was some trouble in town recently. Anything to do with you?"

"You could say." There it was again; that ever-so-subtle clipped undertone to his words. She made a note to let the subject drop. "I was on a contract."

And that resolution went to Oblivion in a handbasket.

"Great." She whirled on him, eyes blazing. "Just great. Murdering innocent people with a dash of guard-o-cide to finish it up. I don't know what sickens me more, the fact that you did it or that you can talk about it so casually. Why am I travelling with you again?"

Vicente realized that she was going to need much more work before she became a tolerable travelling companion.

He didn't stop to face her confrontation; instead, he continued walking, so Avielle was eventually forced to chase after him. "Because I happen to be your only chance for finding your father's killer. Have you ever heard the phrase 'it takes one to know one'? You don't understand the Speaker at all; truly, the words you say right now prove that you don't understand the _Brotherhood_ as a whole. You may not need to know the mind of a mubcrab to kill it, but the Dark Brotherhood is a vastly complex and deadly organization. You cannot hope to destroy it, as you claim you will, without knowing its mindset, its tactics, the ways it functions. I may at the moment be a renegade, but I am easily the oldest member within the Brotherhood. To put it simply, I know how it works. You do not, and _that_ is why you are with me."

_He's on the run from the Brotherhood? Interesting..._ She stashed that accidentally-slipped piece of information in the back of her mind. It didn't explain much, but it was a start to figuring out what had happened to make Vicente turn on this Lachance person.

Aloud, she snorted. "In that case, you're stuck with me for a long time. Don't ever expect me to see things the way your sick Brotherhood does."

The edges of his lips tweaked. "I did not say you needed to agree. Simply to understand."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

His earlier assessment had been correct - for a mage, Avielle Fradaun was not terribly open-minded. _I am definitely going to have to fix that... but I'm a teacher, am I not? Pretend she's a new Murderer. Just with... altered curriculum._

"Tell me, when you are walking on the road, have you ever encountered a wolf?"

"I have no idea what you're getting at, but who hasn't?"

"And it attacked you, correct?"

"If this is a 'stupid questions' contest, I think you just won. No, they usually invite me out for tea and sweetrolls when I find them."

"If this was a 'stupid answers' contest, you would have most certainly earned yourself a trophy," the vampire said dryly. "I shall ignore your cheek for the time being. Why do wolves attack you?"

Avielle raised an eyebrow. "Because they're fetching bastards."

"Since I am fairly sure that wolves have no custom of marriage, the bastard concept is rather irrelevant pertaining to them."

"Very funny."

"I am merely trying to get an intelligent answer out of you. Prove to me that you're capable of thinking. I did not go out of my way to bring along somebody useless."

The casual insult stung more than Vicente had meant it to; the _hell_ was she going to let a Brotherhood member think her dumb and useless, and useless had deeper connotations for her at the moment. Just because she couldn't safely use her own magicka didn't mean she was powerless. She yanked the staff from her back, feeling the wood crackle with power under her hands, and fired off a blast of green magicka.

Unfortunately for her, this did not help her cause, as she'd forgotten that vampires were immune to paralysis. As it was, Vicente saw the attack coming and could have easily dodged it, but chose not to just for sheer amusement. The illusion spell did nothing more than momentarily give his skin an eerily green cast.

"Dear me," he said acidly, "was that supposed to do something?"

Avielle blinked rather stupidly for a moment, remembering Count Hassildor's words a bit too late. _Damn it!_ How was she going to get anything over this Vicente person if her only decent weapon was defunct against him?

"You _could_ just answer the question I've been posing for so long," he continued. "I'm too old for games."

"Fine!" she spat. "Wolves attack you because they're hungry! They eat people! What's the point?"

"Was that so hard?" Inwardly, he was a little relieved that she _could_ answer it. He didn't need another Ravolian... nor did he need where that thought was returning to, not when the casual jabs had managed to take his mind off of the pain. "The point is, you know why they attack. Which brings another question; do you agree with it?"

"What?"

"I said," Vicente repeated, words very slow and defined, "do you agree with the fact that a wolf will attack you when it spots you? Are you perfectly fine with getting pounced on by a slavering predator, knowing that your demise would feed its hunger for the day?"

"Of course not!"

"Then there it is," he sighed. "You understand, but do not agree; hence, the earlier concept should make sense, and you are not completely hopeless."

"Whatever, old man." Avielle was nonplussed.

"Vicente Valtieri."

"Huh?" The random phrase caught the mage off guard.

He grinned, his pronounced teeth very white in the moonlight. "You once asked my last name, and I told you that you hadn't earned the right to know it then. There it is. Valtieri. Please do not butcher it with your Cyrodiilic accent."

"So I've 'earned the right', then?" Avielle made quotation marks in the air, her tone deeply sarcastic.

He looked away, still smiling. It occurred to the girl that his demeanor had been very wildcard for the whole evening; were vampires prone to mood swings?

"In all honesty? No. But it certainly is preferable to 'old man.'"

And as much as she hated to admit it, it was difficult to be afraid of him when he was being congenial.

"Dream on, old man."


	17. Forging Trust

**If I owned Oblivion, the game would have had werewolves in it and the Purification would have never happened. Enough said. Oh, random weird fact - I went to Fort Hastrel for the first time in-game, having selected it from UESPwiki for its story function earlier. Very, very strange, because as I got in there, the first thing I saw was a Dunmer corpse wielding a mace, slumped up against the wall. It was a treasure hunter, not a vampire hunter, but still - strange coincidence. Then, a trail of fresh bloodstains just so happened to lead down into the main cavern area. It's ironic, as I wrote those details in the story before ever actually seeing the fort's matching traits.**

**HoodedMage: Well, it's got to end sometime... I admit, that was where I planned on ending it at the moment (well, a bit afterwards), but that fight isn't going to happen for a while yet. **

**DualKatanas - First off, unless I'm interpreting this terribly wrong, any comparisons you make between Gorgoth and Vicente are taken as enormous compliments. :D And secondly, your review made me very, very happy. I was like ':o biiiig' and then I read it multiple times just to feel good about myself. Your approval of that one scene means a lot to me, and the interactions... I feel like you're setting me up to really high standards... now I don't feel so great about this chapter. It's more of a transition than anything really good. Also, I sort of don't know how to do strikethroughs? :/**

**Arty - Yikes! I'm really glad to hear that you're okay, though. I hope that cadet learned to be more careful. Aeons/eons can be spelled either way.**

**Dandy - Eep, thank you! I really do try with dialogue, it can be a little hard... also, with character development, I've already written a large portion of Vicente's backstory. I'm just wondering where to put it. Maybe even next chapter? ;o**

**Pandora - Laughed out loud, that's great XD**

It was about an hour before daybreak when the pair found themselves in front of the Gottshaw Inn. The travel had been uneventful in means of confrontation, and Vicente had found himself strangely amused in trading jabs with the Breton mage. However, it didn't take long for Avielle to become progressively drowsy, tired, and finally dead on her feet, and the chat turned to a peaceful silence. Which brought him to now; he didn't miss the longing look that the girl was giving the tutor-style building through her half-lidded eyes. It did look charming, with ivy growing on the siding and a plume of smoke indicating the presence of a warm hearth.

The assassin would have rather attempted to give a hug to an angry troll than stay there.

He sighed. Oh, the things he sacrificed. "Would you happen to have any money on you?"

Avielle blinked, looking very much like a somnambulist. "What? Oh... not much? Enough for an room, but I didn't think..."

"I'm not going to make you spend the day in a cave," he said dryly. "I have better manners than that."

Conversation seemed to be waking the girl up. "Are _you_ going to?" Avielle cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes. Trust me, the patrons will not take kindly to sharing a roof with a vampire."

"Why don't you just stay in the inn? You can have your cloak back. Hell, you could just make yourself invisible like you did that one time. You don't seem like the kind of person who'd feel guilty about not paying for a room."

The vampire looked away. "I dislike staying near people whom I do not trust extensively. It's an old habit... and it's kept me alive for quite some time."

Avielle's left eyebrow joined her right in their raised position. "And you trust me?" she asked, incredulous. "We barely know each other, and you know perfectly well that I want to see every Dark Brotherhood member rot in hell."

_I trust you because I have nobody else left to. And because I could kill you thirty different ways with my hands tied behind my back if you ever tried to make a move on me._

Aloud, he said, "Ah, don't flatter yourself. Are you going to rent a bed, or would you rather use stalactites for a pillow?"

The choice was pretty much obvious. "I like my pillows real and fluffy, thank you very much, but... Aren't you afraid I'm going to run off? I mean, let's face it, it wouldn't be hard."

"Not really, no." His expression held a distinct tone of smugness to it. "My offer is what holds you, not my presence, and as I already mentioned, having you run off would not be an enormous setback on my behalf. But very well. I will meet you after sunset outside of the inn. Please wait for me there."

"I could get moving after a few hours of sleep," Avielle pointed out, brain not quite working properly with so little energy to run on.

"And frankly, I have no need for any at the moment, but the sun has a rather irritating tendency to set me on fire."

"Oh. Um... did you want your cloak back?"

"Yes, thank you." He took it from her, glancing up at the sky as he did so. Dawn was easily his least favorite time of day. Sometimes, he felt downright caged by his vulnerabilities. He had no worries about not being able to find shelter in time - he could see the sharply raised slope of land that usually indicated a cavern not too far north, and the sun was not yet coloring the horizon.

Avielle watched him leave. For a second, she wondered if she really _should_ run while she still could. Upon realizing that she didn't actually have any burning desire to do so, she was flabbergasted. What had changed? Why in Oblivion was she consenting to travel with a Dark Brotherhood assassin - hell, not just that, but a _vampire_ too. A vampire! That word alone should have been enough to make her turn tail and run away screaming. Why hadn't she?

She couldn't fathom how she'd be of any use to him in her current state. Assassins were unforgiving people - he'd probably just dump her at the side of the road if he learned about her broken magic.

Avielle shivered - the air was bitingly cold without the warm cloak to stave it off. He'd been kind, hadn't he? He'd given her free reign for accomodations, he'd allowed her a choice about taking the journey to begin with. He had handed her his robe when he'd seen that she was cold, and later on in the night, as her energy waned futher, she might have used his shoulder for support once or twice...

And it was a sign of serious sleep deprivation that she was letting herself think that way. She snorted. Of course the fetcher knew how to put on an act, to worm his way into her trust. She wasn't going to fall into that trap so quickly.

Teeth chattering, she trudged over to the Gottshaw Inn and gladly stumbled into the warmth.

There was nobody there, save for a Bosmer at the counter. "Don't often see travellers here," he remarked as she came in.

"You do have rooms, right?" Avielle went straight to business.

"Yep, they're all free," the Wood Elf affirmed cheerily. "Ten septims for the room, and fifteen if you want breakfast included. I guess it would be lunch, in your case."

Avielle gave him fifteen coins; after all, she didn't have anywhere to go for the day.

She made her way up the stairs, feeling utterly dead on her feet. The bed that was ready for her was nothing fancy, but the thought of just being able to curl up and _rest_ seemed like a dream come true to her aching feet and tired eyes. She nearly forgot to kick her shoes off before sliding under the rough covers, one thought crossing her mind before her drowsiness claimed her; a thought that she dimly recalled having before - although never in reference to beginning a crusade with a vampire affiliated with her worst enemies.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

0o0o0

The cave was not exactly prime real estate. After cresting the hill Vicente had spotted and discovering that it indeed did mask a shelter, he found himself in a single cavern, decorated charmingly with the skulls of smugglers. And then there was the matter of the current tenant; a mother grizzly with three cubs. Animals would normally not attack Vicente out of hunger, but nesting mothers will try to exterminate anything that threatens their children.

The fight wasn't difficult - he slew all four ursines with only amassing a single scratch on his face, which was immediately healed by the lifestealing properties of his sword. But, as he'd regarded grimly, there was something admittedly inhospitable about spending a day next to freshly-maimed corpses. He contemplated hauling them outside, but the thinnest streaks of light were already beginning to creep through around the corner, at the shelter's entrance.

However, he had discovered something of use within the heart of the now-unoccupied nest; beneath the old bones and gravel was a long-forgotten chest. He undid the lock with a quick cantrip and unearthed a small pile of septims, upon which sat a single soul gem. It was filled; he could feel the eddies of life essence swirling within. It wasn't a particularly powerful one, but Vicente had no need of soul gems anyways. His two-handed sword had been enchanted ages ago in Vvardenfell, and the gems there had been of a different nature. The Dark Elves had held some secret in their crafting that made them infinitely more useful than those of his current province. Somehow, they actually recharged themselves, regenerating their life energy over time. Vicente prized his claymore for this invaluable property, among other more sentimental reasons.

Even so, he pocketed it, along with the fifty or so coins. If Avielle was going to fool around with her staff, she'd probably need it sooner or later.

A thorough search revealed nothing else of any functionality. There were a handful of mushrooms thriving in patches of dark, damp earth, and he knew that the particular type of fungi was useful for weapon poisons - but what good was that now, with no apparatus?

A pair of beady red eyes stared at him from a corner; a rat had crept out to see what the disturbance was. His heart gave a phantom throb of pain as he was reminded of Schemer, the friendly rodent who had curled up on his desk and rubbed up against him for affection. Out of habit, Vicente extended a hand to the rat, but it only squeaked and vanished back into the dark. Sighing, he let his arm drop.

And so he settled back to wait.

0o0o0

It was about half past one when Avielle woke up. Her legs were sore - she groaned as she rolled out of the bed and her feet touched the ground. She slid on her shoes and gathered up her patheticall light bag of belongings. All it currently held was a handful of septims and her sheathed dagger. She'd have to buy some food - her stomach growled in agreement.

Soon afterwards, she was sitting at one of the inn's tables, enjoying some very good ham and potatoes. She chatted with the innkeeper as she ate. Bosmers annoyed her as a general rule, but if the wall clock was anything to go by, she had a while before she was at license to to go anywhere. And there was really nothing else to do.

"Did you hear?" he chirped, in typical Wood Elf fashion. "They say a vampire kidnapped some girl from Anvil!"

So news had spread. "What happened?" Avielle asked, trying to sound authentically curious.

"Apparently, it broke into a tavern, grabbed the girl, cut her throat, and started drinking her blood. Three guards were killed when they tried to fight the thing off. They were just... slaughtered. And for all their bravery, it just took the poor girl and went on a rampage in the streets."

Avielle was shocked. At first, she simply wrote off the inkeeper as an exxagerating storyteller - she'd_ been_ there, and while Vicente _had_ held her hostage, none of the bloodshed described had actually taken place. But people didn't have any reason to believe otherwise. They'd called him 'it', a thing. She thought back to the stigmas she'd generally accepted about vampires before meeting Vicente Valtieri and Janus Hassildor, and felt a sudden surge of indignation on their behalf. People could say whatever they liked about them, and nobody would ever question the claims, however heinous. No wonder they lied and hid from the world.

And damn it, why was she feeling sorry for _him_?

Her silence was misinterpreted. "Terrible, isn't it?"

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't quite banish the injustice from her mind. It lingered there unwanted, crying sympathy for the one she was in no mood to pardon.

"Yes," she replied, answering a different question. "It is."

The afternoon dragged on. Avielle bought some fruits and a few loaves of bread for later on; she had her doubts that her travelling companion had brought along food. It was hard to picture the figure that had danced soundlessly through her nightmares as somebody suddenly real and accessible.

Eventually, she found herself at the junction before the inn, watching the sun dip below the crimson horizon. Muted stars flickered into view, one by one; the scene held a strange significance for the mage, but she couldn't tell for what meaning.

Wonder soon turned to boredom. The sun was down, the night beginning, and her resident kidnapper was nowhere in sight. He had told her to wait, but waiting and Avielle were fated to never belong in the same sentence together. It only took five minutes before the girl began to poke around for him. She first headed around the Gottshaw Inn, peering behind it. There was little to see in that direction. The mountainous region of the Colovian highlands raked up sharply from here, limiting her viewing distance. South just seemed to consist of a gentle valley with sloping hills. She returned to the road, taking a westward path this time to further her scouting.

She glanced around a large boulder, trying to make out shapes in the descending gloom. Where was that damned vampire?

There was a rustle. Avielle jerked around, looking for the source, and then a hand roughly grabbed her by the throat.

"Well, looky here, boys," a deep voice rumbled, making her feel like something slimy was slithering down her spine.

She twisted around instinctively. The hand around her neck was sweaty, and she easily wriggled out of the man's hold. With a gasp, she backed away, only to run straight into a Nord and a Redguard who had most definitely not been behind her a minute ago.

Her initial assaulter, an Imperial with a blotchy complexion, was slowly stepping towards her. The mage's eyes flickered from side to side, heart thudding in her chest, but the two thugs had moved to block her from both sides.

"A little girly walking all alone at night," he mocked. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Get back," Avielle warned, pulling out her silver dagger. Oh, what she wouldn't have given for unimpaired magicka right now... "I'm not giving you any money, so go the hell away."

This brave statement earned her a very ugly laugh from all three. "Who said we wanted your money, girly? We're just awful lonely..."

"Look at the girl," leered the Nord, "with her pretty little knife. Maybe she wants to see what a _real_ blade looks like?"

Oh, gods. Highwaymen were bad enough, but...

_Okay. Screw the fact that he's an assassin and probably wants to drink my blood. At least he's not trying to..._

"Vicente!" she screamed, with all the volume that she could muster.

A moment later, her head exploded with pain; first in the front, then in the back of her skull. The Nord had pulled out a club and slammed her to the ground with a harsh blow - she gurgled, spitting red as stars whirled before her eyes.

"Shut up, girly," the Imperial snarled. "We can do this nice, or we can get a little rough."

"We might want to leave her alone," warned a new voice, belonging to the Redguard. "Sounds like she's with somebody. Let's just get the hell out of here."

"She probably just made up a name to scare us. Grow a spine, windbag."

The girl tried to yell out again, but the Nord's meaty hand clamped down over her mouth. Even worse, the other was fumbling with her shirt. She kicked and thrashed, waving her dagger about wildly, but it was quickly knocked from her grip, and the movement only worsened the pounding in her head.

"Somebody beat the bitch back down," the leader spat, pinning her arms to the stone. "Before she wastes all of that feistiness."

With a sob of desperation, Avielle reached in the back of her mind, knowing that it was the only way. The power was there, swirling very much within her grasp, and she detested it with every fiber of her being. Her own personal hell lingered openly behind salvation...

"And what, may I ask, is this?"

The words were perfectly calm. They were also spoken in the most dangerous tone that Avielle had ever heard, the sort of icy pleasantry that forms a thin veneer over a current of boiling rage. She immediately let the magic go, heart fluttering with relief; she did not think that she had ever been happier to hear anything in her life.

She risked a glance up. Vicente was striding towards the group, face obscured by his hood. Very little of his body was visible, but she could see the tension in his fingers; one hand drummed against his side, where the hilt of his old weapon had been.

Two of the men muttered amongst themselves, sizing up the weapon strapped on the stranger's back, but the Imperial only leered at the newcomer. "Looks like somebody wants to play hero."

The vampire's voice was still pleasant. "I hold no such illusions of heroism."

The bandit chuckled hideously. "Oh, so you want a turn? But we don't like to share, do we, boys? You can have what's left of -"

"I advise," Vicente snarled, giving up the act, "that you put her down. Right now." And Avielle had been wrong - he was _scarier_ when he openly displayed aggression, possibly because the now-drawn massive claymore of his was held in one hand. Her eyes widened. She was no warrior, and had no eye for these things, but it didn't take a genius to see that his blade was crafted from pure ebony. It had to weigh at least sixty pounds, and its grip was molded for ten fingers, not five, but he wielded it as if it were any other sword. He'd moved so quickly that she hadn't seen him draw it. It had simply been in its sheath one second, and then poised to strike the next, the black blade shimmering with a reddish light in the dusk. An enchantment?

The flanking bandits backed off, but the leader wasn't willing to step down, even though his eyes betrayed a growing apprehension. He stepped away from the mage, who was now on the ground, staring up at the unfolding events. "I don't think anyone taught you how to wield a sword, buddy."

"I am not fond of giving extra chances, especially not to scum such as you. I say this for the final time; _leave_."

The Imperial drew his own weapon, a very spiky-looking mace. "You think I'm afraid of you, dumbass?"

Vicente couldn't resist the theatrics, so he brought up his hood with his free left hand. Avielle could see his face clearly, and the rage etched there surprised her. Yes, he seemed to need her for something, and he was rather bound to protect her because of that, but the blaze in his eyes indicated genuine outrage towards her tormentors. Something like warmth filled her chest; the bandits, of course, had the opposite reaction. The pair of more cowardly - and intelligent - men dropped their weapons and fled immediately, one of them screaming. The leader tried to take a step back, raising a shaking finger to point at the man before him.

"It hardly matters what you feel towards me, considering that you'll be dead by the time I finish this sentence," the vampire said as he plunged the claymore through the stunned man's chest. "Ah, I really _have_ lost my touch with the one-liners, haven't I?"

"Gnnhhgh," Avielle replied helpfully, pitching forward with relief. "_Thank_ you. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't shown up."

_But you easily could have saved yourself with magic_, he pondered quietly. _So why did you simply give up?_ Perhaps he wasn't the only one of the pair that was keeping secrets. If that was the case, he'd make sure that it was only him again soon enough. He was not content with ignorance.

"Did you really have to kill him? I mean, you saved me and all, but..."

"They were trying to rape you." He pulled back his sword, intent on cleaning it. The shirts of the deceased usually made for fine rags. "I have absolutely no tolerance for such hideous dregs of society."

He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded... he frowned.

"That's a bit hypocritical, seeing as you kill people for a living," the girl replied pointedly.

The words floated from what seemed like nowhere, then drifted away. His mind was not in the mood to focus on those thoughts. Instead, it was pondering the truly enticing way that the blood on his sword shone in the moonlight, and the familiar haziness swathed his perception. As this notion grew, he became very conscious of the heartbeat next to him, still racing from leftover panic. There was something positively mouthwatering about fear...

"Hey! Old man? ...Vicente?" Avielle had noticed the unfocused look in his eyes. "Are you listening?"

_Not good_, the rational part of his mind pointed out urgently.

He quickly focused such sanguinary thoughts on the man he had just killed. "Do you mind?" Even as he asked, gesturing to the cadaver, he wondered _why_ her approval or disapproval meant anything to him. He was doing her a favor, going for dead blood instead of her live and very pretty neck... besides, if she was travelling with a vampire, she would have to get used to it anyways.

The girl had no comprehension of what he was asking, and his sudden frustration with himself for being such a pushover left him in no mood to explain. Avielle only realized what he meant when he knelt down by the dead bandit's side and lifted his throat to his mouth. Horrified, the mage shut her eyes, cringing, but morbid curiosity overcame repulsion when her ears heard no sound, and they were soon open again in narrow slits.

Vicente was still as he fed; it would have looked like he was embracing the dead man, if not for the subtle working of his throat. It was both horrifying and sacrosanct. Knowledge told her that what he was doing was vile and inhuman, but there was something about the act that left her unable to look away.

As he lifted his head up, tongue swiping the last of the redness from his lips, it occurred to Avielle through her disgust that he looked slightly different. His eyes were softer, dimmer; a paler and less vicious-looking red. The planes of his face were similarly affected. It wasn't much of a difference, but they were less harsh and angled than before, a shade less gaunt. And his pallor was broken by a faint tinge of color in his cheeks.

The girl shivered, unable to stop herself from trembling as she gave him a very accusing look. "It's bad enough that you slaughtered him, but then you had to go... go... _defile_ his body like that? That was horrible..."

And for some completely unfathomable reason, he felt embarassed. Embarassed! He was perfectly content with his vampirism, and he had no cause to have any hesitation about doing what was necessary. Vicente almost said 'it was either him or you', but his earlier lapse in pride loathed the thought of admitting his weakness. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said, sarcasm masking his unwanted mortification. "Would you like me to go and prey upon somebody who still has need of their blood, just to give the dead some peace?"

Avielle opened her mouth to retort, but his indignant logic was getting to her; she couldn't think of anything to say to that. If she looked at it objectively, completely ignoring the heinous nature of what he was doing, she supposed that he was preventing somebody alive from suffering by... she didn't even want to think about it... from the dead. But he'd been staring at her with a very blank expression for a second there...

_Oh, hell. _Somehow, in the midst of all of this, she'd managed to forget that he was a vampire. Not in the blood-drinking sense, but more in the not-completely-human sense. There had to be a reason why most of them went completely feral, and she had a vague suspiscion that Vicente was not _entirely_ as genteel as he appeared.

"Or maybe you were trying to sink your fangs into anyone besides _me_?" she spat.

Hmm, he thought. She was interesting. A complete idiot in some ways, but very perceptive in others. He both approved and cringed at the different implications this had. The girl had not been seeing him on his best behavior.

"If only your tact was as developed as your ability to make accurate inflections. Would you like to hear my defense, or would you feel better to just wallow in your fear of the scary vampire?"

Hmm, she thought. He was good. No, she absolutely did not want to hear him try to justify himself, but the way he'd phrased it implied that if she didn't hear him out, then she was terrified of him. Which she was not. At least, she didn't want to think that she was.

"Whatever, whatever."

"As I'm sure you have noticed, I am extremely well-versed in physical combat. But, as you have not yet had a chance to notice, I detest extended fights, and prefer to finish things off as soon as possible. The reason? Bloodshed. I find it challenging to maintain my focus when blood is spilled, to varying degrees. Unfortunately, it's nigh impossible to explain the sort of... warring states of mind that I have to the living. You need to experience the compulsion before you can truly understand what it means to be able to fight it. Have you ever passed out, felt yourself slipping out of consciousness?"

"Yes..." And somehow, this was reminding Avielle horribly of her own mental issues.

"It's similar to that, but more slowly - and letting go in my case has nasty repercussions. Instead of unconsciousness, it means slipping out of my rational mind."

"So what you're saying is, you have multiple personality disorder?" The mage shuffled a little. "That's not really making me feel safe, you know."

He rolled his eyes. "I do not suffer from any psychoses; it's closer to... how would I put it? I have much stronger instincts than a human does, and my body falls back on those more and more frequently as I gradually fail to meet its needs. I've learned to fight it, to recognize it when it begins to rear up and stop it in its tracks, or to divert it to something else if the need is too powerful to ignore - and that brings us to now. Which reminds me..." He glanced at his claymore somewhat dispassionately. Tearing a scrap of fabric from the dead bandit's shirt, he began to wipe the blade clean as he talked.

"Normally, I have better resistance where my impulses are concerned, but I hadn't fed for nine days until now. I know that those numbers mean nothing to you, so I'll try to give you a frame of reference. For me, nine days is approaching 'very uncomfortable'. For a vampire that hasn't spent two centuries living around people and attempting to exist as a civilized person, it would be closer to rolling on the ground and shrieking in agony. If you were to factor out any triggers, such as fresh blood right in front of me, I can go for roughly three weeks without feeding before I become completely mad. If it makes you any more comfortable about travelling with me, I do not allow myself to reach that point. I must apologize for scaring you today, but it was not as close a call as you seem to think. I didn't actually _need_ to turn to the bandit, but I assumed it would be most prudent, considering his already deceased state and the fact that ignoring my thirst would only lead to repeat incidents later on."

Avielle mulled it over. "I wish you weren't so damned logical," she muttered eventually. "It makes it really hard to stay pissed off at you. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. You're kind of freaking me out."

Vicente laughed at that. "To your credit, I have had plenty of time to work out my arguments. And, truth be told, you have not exactly been seeing the best of me."

"Is it really that hard, though?" Somewhere along the line, the mage's disgust had turned to an intent sort of curiosity. "Like, trying not to go psychotic when somebody cuts their finger?"

"It may have sounded that way, but no. For the vast majority of things, ignoring heartbeats and my thirst is as second nature as breathing is to you. It's only rarely and under certain circumstances that I truly have to struggle for my sanity, but those times can be... arduous."

Which Avielle had a very strong sense of empathy for.

"Do you have all of your things?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. He had slid his claymore back into his sheath - it looked so large and imposing on his back that Avielle once again had to marvel at his ability to one-handedly use it. "We may as well continue moving, while the night is still young."

"Yeah, I'm good. And ol... Vicente?"

"Yes?"

"...Thank you," she said quietly. "You saved me again."

"Whatever you may think of me, I look after my own, Avielle." Inside, he was both a little touched at the unexpected thanks, and still trying to understand why the sight of her being tormented by those scum had riled him up so powerfully. Usually, that kind of fury was reserved only for his Family - a Family that no longer existed. Who was this girl with her pretty face, to break into his lock-and-key emotions with such ease?

He started to walk away; Avielle was sort of irritated at this habit. Couldn't he just ask? Almost forgetting, she quickly found her dagger on the ground and picked it up. _Best not to lose it. _

Vicente noticed. "May I see that?"

"Huh?" The girl looked up. "Oh, sure."

He took the proffered weapon, twirling it idly between his fingers. It was rather unimpressive; silver was an easily chipped material, and the metal of this particular one was ridden with impurities. The edges were dull as well, as if the dagger hadn't seen repair in a long time. At least that was within his power to correct. He snapped his fingers, causing a red spark to flicker around the weapon's side. Avielle started.

"What did you do to it?" she demanded.

"I used magic to shear off the edges. More precise than a whetstone, and it makes for a sharper blade."

The girl squinted at the dagger as he returned it; he also handed over his cloak, which she gratefully shrugged on. "Is that even possible?"

"Of course." Vicente glanced over at her, looking rather amused. "Magicka is very malleable. You have no obligation to stick to its conventional uses. It certainly is versatile... but I prefer not to rely on it. Which reminds me - you don't appear to know how to use that weapon very well."

"So?" she said defensively.

"So I could teach you, if you are willing to learn."

Avielle was not somebody who liked to accept help, but after all the fighting she'd seen him in, she was certain that his utter proficiency with swords just about equaled her ineptitude with them. "Do you think you could? I'm pretty much a hopeless cause."

"Of course." The vampire chuckled. "I prefer to travel whenever I can, but daylight lends me plenty of free time to train you. And I've seen worse cases than you, Avielle. Believe me."

"You're just saying that."

"Really?" he challenged. "I've been mentoring students since before your great-grandmother was even born, and I know you detest the Brotherhood, but you at least seem to respect its power. I am sufficiently sure that you would be amazed at the complete idiocy that I molded some of our assassins out of... daggers are one of the first things I would cover. There was a Wood Elf once who thought that you were supposed to use them as projectiles. She utterly destroyed her heirloom bow while trying to nock a blade as you would an arrow. Another time, I had to correct an Altmer who had only ever used magicka in fighting; he didn't know which side he was supposed to hold, and ended up stabbing the practice dummies with the hilt while dicing his hands."

Amazingly, Avielle laughed. If she forgot exactly _who_ he was talking about, then the recollections became just that; stories, stories told by a companion rather than a possibly feral vampire and Brotherhood member.

But the moment was short-lived; instead of chuckling along with her, Vicente straightened up, eyes distant in a way that reminded the mage horribly of a few minutes ago. His mouth curved into a grimace. The girl opened her mouth to question, somewhat trepid, but he was already speaking.

"There's a person on their way," he muttered. "Light, definitely not on horseback, but very, very fast."

Avielle listened, but she couldn't hear anything. "Is it a guard?"

Vicente ignored the inquiry. "Quick," he hissed. "Give me my cloak."

But before the girl could comply, a figure skidded to a halt in front of them, snow crunching underfoot with abrupt volume. She wasn't sure where they had come from - it seemed like they'd just appeared out of nowhere, they were moving so quickly. She tried to discern what the person looked like, but like Vicente should have been and she was currently, they wore a robe and a hood. But unlike the pair of Bretons, they also had a tail...

"M'aiq has been looking for you, kind sir!"

_Oh, dear... _Vicente swore he felt a headache coming on as wariness turned to exasperation. Not this one again...

For it was unmistakably M'aiq the Liar that had approached him once again.

"Khajiit wishes to thank the kind vampire for pointing out calipers to M'aiq. Found not one pair in the barrels, but three. Three calipers! Made Khajiit very happy.

"Er, you're very welcome, mister M'aiq." He glanced over at Avielle, wishing that he was wearing his cloak simply for the benefit of its hood. The Khajiit might be crazy, but he was perceptive in at least one way, and the vampire could not see how that could ever turn out to be a good thing. "And, ah, you have my gratitude for that little scene back in Anvil."

"Bah, was no problem. Guards were doing it wrong. M'aiq disapproves. As for welcome, is glad to know," the cat replied in earnest. "M'aiq has seen many vampires before. All bad, all too aggressive. Did not carry calipers, did not point me towards calipers. All blood, blood, blood. Are worse than people who wanted crossbows, who M'aiq thinks are also crazy."

Avielle spared Vicente the sheer confusion of having to create a suitable response. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, her look a mirror of how exasperated the vampire was innately.

"Ah, M'aiq forgets to introduce himself to the lovely lady!" He gave the Breton a funny little bow. "Is bad manners, but was busy talking to the kind vampire. Greatest apologies, young damsel. My sugar is yours."

Which was just a Khajiit welcome, but the vampire wouldn't have been surprised if M'aiq the Liar really was on Skooma.

"He's not kind, you dolt." Avielle rolled her eyes. "He's a fetching assassin, you know that?"

Vicente resisted the urge to do what Ravolian had once called a 'facepalm', derived from introducing your forehead to the palm of your hand in a particularly forceful manner. Was the Breton going to spill this to everyone they met? Maybe he really ought to do this alone...

"M'aiq does not care," the Khajiit said blithely. "Is essential."

"Essential?"

"Ah, yes, is certain status in the game. Special, very special. M'aiq is glad that he is special."

By now, the assassin was starting to despair. _The game? Oh, for Sithis's sake, not this again..._

"Khajiit will explain. When you stab somebody enough, they die," the Khajiit continued enthusiastically. "Too much magic, too many arrows, and you fall over and don't get up. Very sad, M'aiq thinks. But M'aiq can be stabbed as many times as the violent people like. Will always get back up. Cannot actually die."

"Good luck with that," Vicente added hastily. "But I do apologize; we really are in a hurry. We have a, ah, an epic quest we're undertaking. To beat the... game. Perhaps we can chat again later?" _I do hope that it's closer to perhaps not._

"Bah," the Khajiit snorted. "People who prefer multiplayer are saps, Khajiit thinks. M'aiq prefers to adventure alone. People get in the way, and they talk, talk, talk."

And then he was gone, racing past them towards Anvil with impossible speed. As soon as the Khajiit was out of sight, Vicente turned to Avielle, subconsciously shaking his head.

"Just... don't ask."

"Who in the name of Galerion's boxer shorts was-"

_"Please."_


	18. Memories

**I don't own this gaaaaaame~ Woohoo, 100 reviews! :D I know this took a while to get up - there were a lot of factors contributing to my slowness, including a school competition and nasty writer's block - but I have to say, I'm proud of this one. :B**

**Arty - My bad, it is tudor. Will have to change. And a somnambulist is a sleepwalker. Also, I was pretty sure I'd explained why the two have reason to stick with each other within chapters 15 and 16, fairly thoroughly. As for Avielle getting attacked a lot? Firstly, in-game, there's like a highwayman/rabid animal/group of bandits every three or four inches of road you travel. Secondly, getting rescued repeatedly was the only way I could really think for her to have any base of trust with Vicente, somebody who she naturally had every inclination to detest. And finally, while she might be a danger magnet, I like to think she has more character than, say, Bella Swan. e_o Since they're together now, I can finally allow Vicente to begin teaching Avielle, so she will gradually morph from useless to powerful in her own right.**

**Snape - Yeeeep :D And in their case, it's hardly 'homg ily pl0x marry me' at first sight, like some people seem to think... After all, they do say that hostility is merely sublimated attraction. ;D**

**Melinda - I wasn't aware I actually had a style. I mean, I guess I have a sort of snarky, sardonic tone when left to my own devices, but go ahead - if you see my rambling as something worth emulating at all, I'm seriously flattered. **

**DualKatanas - I don't know, I went over to the Gottshaw Inn and it's built like a tudor. I like tying in Morrowindic stuff because there were a lot of nice things from that game that weren't carried over, and since Vicente came from there, it leaves a lot possibilities. Rather nice gentleman... haha. One of the reasons I did the scene is because Vicente seems exactly the gallant type to rescue some young girl's virtue... I mean, listen to him talk in-game. And idiocy... if they could recruit Ray, well. (Not to mention, most of the in-game DB characters are nutcases.) Claymore? You may have a point, but your hypothetical Orcish warrior-shaman is not an ancient Quarra vampire at the height of his abilities.**

**Hoodedmage - Like I said, it can't go on forever. But when I say that won't happen for a while, I **_**mean**_** it. Cyrodiil's a big place. Have a little faith. :P**

**Phantasmys - Thank you! :D I live in New York; it's moreso that Shivering Isles is 'old' rather than I'm in a remote location. They just don't really sell it in stores these days. Skyrim? Super psyched. But trepid about the repercussions on .**

**Cola - Thanks, I really can never get those two straight. I was wondering which one even as I wrote it.**

The night was cold, but it was a final effort; winter blew its last gusts of breath. Vicente could smell the the faintest hints of spring stirring beneath the lingering chill - mice scarpering in their buried dens, the fragrant buds and shoots that braved sprouting under the snow's heavy shawl. The sky might give forth one or two more flurries, but soon enough it it would turn to rain.

To Avielle, the night just seemed cold.

But the latent change of seasons met the vampire with the air of an old acquaintance, somebody fondly remembered but nearly forgotten. There was a nostalgia to it; the processes and cycles of the natural world had been all but lost to him over the years. Underground, scarcely venturing out into the world above beyond a city's walls, the glimpses he saw were so fragmented that he'd hardly noticed the change. It struck him powerfully now. Here he was, watching winter turn to spring; seeing the days lengthen and life sprout anew from the barren ground. Yes, here he was, still dead amidst the revival of everything.

His reminiscing was interrupted by a rustling sound. He glanced to the side; his companion had slowed somewhat, and seemed to be looking in her pack for something. Vicente held the silence; it had taken her long enough to stop inquiring after a certain demented Khajiit, and he did not wish for the questions to start up again. The entire subject was just so... mental.

The girl was not so quiet. "What are you staring at?" she demanded.

"Merely wondering what you were up to. I assure you, I was not _staring_ at anything."

Avielle rolled her eyes and rummaged in her bag for a bit before withdrawing a loaf of bread. "Still fresh," she approved, before biting into it. The vampire idly watched crumbs float to the ground, diamond dust in the moonlight.

"So you have food? Excellent."

"Yeah, no thanks to you. Thing is, I'm dead broke now," she mumbled around her mouthful of bread. "Spent the last of my pocket change on food, and I can't really go to the Mages Guild and ask for my money when I'm supposed to be kidnapped."

"Fortunately, I am not." Vicente fished around in a pocket that rested just below his belt. "I found perhaps fifty septimes earlier, along with this."

"Is it filled?" she asked, looking intently at the soul gem. At his nod, she smiled. "Thanks. Might need it later."

"That's what I assumed," he agreed, stowing it away once more.

A lazy cloud drifted towards the moons - Masser's red form was absent from the sky, and Secunda's pale light was easily shrouded. Gradually, the night's dim luminescence waned. While Vicente could read the Black Horse Courier with ease in worse conditions, Avielle met the change with much bumping into things and muttered swears.

"It's so fetching dark," she complained as she stumbled into the vampire for the umpteenth time. "I can't see anything."

He halted, turning around. "You _do_ know how to cast Night-Eye, correct?"

The look he shot her was so pathetic that Avielle's indignance burst forward with an answer. "Of course," she huffed, before seeing the pit that she was digging herself into.

"Then do stop complaining and use it," the vampire said pointedly. "I recognize your unfamiliarity with combat - and diplomacy - but I refuse to spoon-feed you in those fields that you can handle yourself in."

_Crap_. Why hadn't she just claimed to not know the spell? Then she'd just look stupid, rather than caught in the very difficult spot she was in. Vicente had one eyebrow raised, arms crossed over his chest - it was the sort of posture that indicated complete immovability. _Quick, find an excuse..._

"Hm?" The assassin's non-lifted brow furrowed down, creating a very impressive expression. "Don't think I haven't noticed, girl. I've seen you use magic before, and your talent was noteworthy. But now? You never restored your energy last night, nor healed the head injury you sustained earlier. You chose to lay defenseless at the feet of those thugs. It begs the question _why_. What are you hiding?"

And here it was, an open confrontation. There was only one thing she could think of doing now, one chance to get this out of the way. The power had caught her unprepared last time; so perhaps, if she was careful, she could edge around it...

"Nothing!" she spat, and reached for the magicka within, searching for what little illusionry she knew to bring forth dark-delving vision.

The familiar abyss yawned before her, and she tumbled down.

Vicente actually jumped back, instinctive shock mandating his actions, as the mage went rigid, eyes glazing over with a solid blue film. A thin, watery keen broke from her lips as sparks and streams of magicka blazed from her fingers. There was no order or sense to it, no sort of spell or its definitions; he could feel power from every different school, all underlaid with another property he was surprised to recognize.

"Avielle!" he called urgently, but she gave no indication that she'd even heard.

The girl herself was panicking. No sooner had she _touched_ her magic before it tore itself free. She jerked in its throes, completely at its mercy. It didn't hurt, didn't burn like the fires of Oblivion as it had once, but she knew that the power's withdrawal would mark the real torture's beginning. A person was saying something, and it dimly occurred to her through the chaos that she hadn't wanted somebody to see this, for some reason...

And she staggered as the magicka shuddered to a halt.

_Why?_ came the familiar voice in its gentle, mocking cadences of velvet, and as she spiraled down, she finally recalled whom it resembled. _Did you actually think you could hide it?_

"Oh, hell," she muttered aloud, heart beginning to race wildly as an eerie, chittering laugh filled her mindscape. Her head felt like an auditorium, filled with the echoing voices of a vast crowd. She couldn't think, and a debilitating terror grasped her body. Where was she? _Who_ was she?

Things with grasping claws and razor-bladed limbs prowled around her, leaving trails of shadows like wisps whenever they moved. Blood dripped from their numerous rows of jagged teeth, black as tar; the hunger burned like fire in their dead eyes. They _wanted_ her. She backed up, the scream finally finding its way from her throat.

There was movement behind her, and she whirled - but not fast enoguh. She caught a glimpse of somebody who she felt as though she knew, and then the blind fear reigned supreme again. A taller, thinner shadow pounced, pinning her to the stone with claws as cold as death.

Vicente held her down until her dilated pupils had narrowed and the frantic pounding of her heart slowed to a tired purr. Eventually, her thrashing ceased, replaced by a weary silence. She got to her feet using his proferred arm, but refused to look him in the eye, keeping her head down. Her breath came in short gasps, on the verge of hyperventilation.

"What," he intoned flatly, "was that?"

Avielle said nothing, staring at the ground as if all of life's answers could be found there.

"Whatever the problem is," he noted dryly, "I doubt it will go away on its own. Avielle, I am over three hundred years old. I know things. Please explain."

"Just get it over with already," she spat suddenly, hoarse from her fit. "You don't need to drag it out any longer than you have to."

He was shocked at her vehemence; what was she so angry about? He supposed her emotions could have been twisted by whatever seizure had struck her, but there seemed to be a quality about her agitation that bespoke something contained - a lie left to ferment. "What am I supposed to be dragging out?"

She glared up at him. Her eyes were distinctly bloodshot, but that didn't remove the furious quality that blazed within. "I'm perfectly damned useless to you, so just leave me and be done with it!"

"What exactly gave you that impression?"

"...what?" The girl looked up, unable to comprehend what she was hearing.

"I said, I have no intention to toss you aside. I merely wish to understand. I've never seen anything like that little display back there. What did you do to yourself?"

She wasn't quite listening past the first sentence. "But... you needed a mage," she muttered, the bitterness still heavy in her tone. "Somebody strong, somebody who could help you kill Lachance. I'm not. I'm broken. A deadweight."

"Whatever happened, you are still magically capable, and I am aware of your arcane prowess in the past. I cannot judge your usefulness without understanding what you believe to be wrong with yourself. I may be able to help. So, Avielle, tell me what has happened and I shall do my best to identify it."

And she did.

She told him of the Dreamworld, of nightmare tests and a culmination of events that should have led to her death. She spoke of sudden and extreme flares of power that came unbidden, bringing results beyond any spells she'd known. And she recalled the uncertainty and then terror as it had spread, growing like some poisonous and vile weed, breaking through at the faintest touch of spellwork and driving her into bouts of insanity. Despite the ludicrous notions that her tale spun, the vampire listened attentively, nodding thoughtfully at details that anyone else would have put her into an asylum for confessing. Avielle felt as though a crushing mantle was gradually being lifted from her shoulders as she was finally able to share her woes.

"Curious," was all he said when the words trickled to a halt and she looked at him intently.

"So you don't have any idea what it is?" Her heart sank. "I should have guessed. Even the head of the Anvil Mages guild was clueless."

"I didn't say that." Avielle snapped back to attention, eyes wide. Vicente was stroking his chin with one pale finger, looking thoughtful. "I do not _know_. But that hardly strangles the field of guesswork. After all that you've told me - your temporary mental struggles especially - I believe I can form an educated hypothesis on the matter."

"Well, spit it out!"

"Of course. How much do you understand of magicka, Avielle? It might aid me in the explanation."

The mage was impatient. "I know a lot, but I'm not really sure what you're asking me for. I don't suppose 'it's sparkly and it blows stuff up' is a suitable answer?"

His gaunt face cracked into a smile. "Perhaps not on the caliber I was searching for, but you at least can derive from that phrasing that magicka is a form of energy. It seems to me that you've tapped into an atypical source."

"Like what? You're losing me."

"Well, suppose the magicka that all spellcasters utilize is of a certain quality. It can be withdrawn with a high degree of safety, with few to no detrimental effects to the user. The same can be said for the so-called 'powers' that certain races and star signs possess - as does my condition. They come from a different sort of energy than typical magicka, with different restrictions and boundaries. However, those aren't the only types of power that exist. For instance, when vampires drink blood, we actually are indirectly absorbing _life_ energy from the victim, with blood merely being the medium we extract it in. Furthermore, each of these has a different quality. The energies of typical magicka cannot heal me as life energy does, and drinking blood would do absolutely nothing for you... It's a poor example, perhaps, but it's difficult to describe."

"That's interesting and all..." Avielle shook her head. "But I'm still not following you. What does this have to do with my broken magicka?"

"Bear with me. Power and magicka, in this case, are synonymous. While all of the types I described to you are different, they all branch from the same sort of energy. Magicka and the mind are deeply interlocked. Everyone possesses what you would call 'magicka', whether they can actively use it or not - some have smaller, extraneous reserves of power that is used to cast spells, while others cannot wield it. But - and this is merely guesswork - power is intrinsic to every living being, or at least sentient ones. What you've managed to touch upon is the vastly deeper magicka within your subconscious. Unlike typical magic, it's already in use; to bring forth that power means you're dragging it away from the function it was already performing. Simply put, your sanity. I cannot be sure, but considering the progressive nature of what you described to me, my guess would be that when you withdraw that power, it adversely affects your mind's ability to function. To spend that kind of magicka... whether the effects are transient or permanent, one can only guess - this _is_ magicka hitherto unknown, as I believe you once put it - but mark my words, there _will_ be consequences."

The mage blinked. "Why aren't you in the University? You could end up running the place, knowing as much as you do."

"Your guild does not take kindly to those of my state. You saw their relationship with dear Janus, and they only deal with him because he is both a Count and likely able to defeat their entire council alone if it ever came to a duel. And do not take my words at face value - they are merely the hypotheses of somebody who has seen enough to draw from. Guesses and theories, nothing more."

"Better than any of the crap anyone else in the guild has given me," she muttered back. "So a little more guesswork, if you don't mind. What consequences do you have in mind? So far, nothing's been permanent, but it does get a little longer every time. Could I somehow stop using it and keep things from getting any worse?"

"I'm afraid not," sighed Vicente. "Once, twice - you could have gone back. But I'm sure you've noticed it - I most certainly have, both in the recent incident and your unwillingness to use magicka since our encounter in Anvil. You cannot even cast the simplest of cantrips without drawing that energy out. You've broken the barrier between conscious and subconscious magic, Avielle. That, I'm sure, cannot be fixed. Not without cutting you off from magicka entirely."

She winced. "That's even worse. You're sure about this?"

"As I have said before, I am not. But being undead, I have an innate sense of the energies around me. Everything has its own very distinct... flavor, if you will. Each different school of magicka, life, unlife, Daedric power; they all have different feels to them. And when your magicka changed from a spell to that chaos a few minutes back, so did the impression I got from it; instead of perceiving it as a spell, it felt almost exactly like your life essence."

The girl absorbed this.

"My mother was able to cast utterly titanic spells," she said slowly, after a few quiet strides. "I couldn't imagine how she could use such powerful castings like that when I was little. Looking back, their scope doesn't seem all that different from what I've been able to do. But she could control them; she never had any of this craziness tearing her apart when she would experiment."

"Did she?" Vicente shot the other Breton a sideways glance. "It's possible she burned everything else away _besides_ that experimenting, besides that goal she focused so obsessively upon. I'm sorry, Avielle, but 'normal' people would not mutilate themselves in the way you claim she did. It's possible that this split in her mind occurred while the loss of her husband was still fresh, and as she drew on the newfound power, she grew increasingly irrational until toying with death on a daily basis meant nothing to her."

"Are you calling my mother insane?"

A less confident man would have balked at the sudden venom in Avielle's tone; unsurprisingly, he had hit a nerve. But the vampire dearly needed to prove a point if he was ever going to _help_ the girl, so he steeled his resolve and said, "Yes, unfortunately, I am."

For his efforts, he recieved a whack from a slightly magical stick. He'd had worse.

"Reserving your charges, I see," he approved.

"Shut up," Avielle growled back, strapping the staff back to where it belonged. "You have no right..."

"Honestly, that temper is going to... well, I would say 'into trouble', but I fear that's redundant, so I'll settle with the adage 'that it's going to be the death of you'. I am not trying to take jabs at your mother, I am being deadly serious - and seeing as this is all the insight you have on your condition, I would consider what I have said."

She glared in response. "Hey, you yourself said it was just a guess."

But she lapsed into silence, obeying him without realising. Vicente rubbed his head absently, smoothing over his hair where the staff had collided, and an idea took root as his fingers brushed over the residual charge from the magical object.

"Do you have any jewelry?" he inquired, seemingly out of nowhere. "A necklace or a ring, perchance?"

Avielle was innattentive while preoccupied, and didn't have enough spare thought to question his request. "Mhm," she said absently, taking something off of her left hand; the vampire squinted and made out a golden ring with a sapphire reflecting the moonlight. "My mother gave this to me when I turned sixteen."

Before she could protest, he plucked the circlet from her hand, drawing the soul gem from his pocket as he did so. The girl did a double take as he held the gem at eye level, seemingly inspecting it for something. "Hey, what-"

And then he took the gem and crushed it in his fist.

"What the hell are you doing?" Avielle gasped, horrified at the waste, as he sifted the remains of the jewel and scattered the glittering dust over her ring.

He ignored her fixedly for about half a minute, muttering something under his breath - an incantation? His voice was so soft, she couldn't hear - that seemed to make her ring absorb the fragmented gem, glowing all the while. At last, it emitted a humming noise and dimmed. However, she quickly noticed that the moonlight seemed to touch it with a strange, glossy cast that it had not had before; it looked as though it had been dipped in a feather-thin veneer of transparent silver, or mercury.

She glared up at the vampire. "What did you do to it?" she demanded. "That's one of the only things I have left from my mother, how _dare_ you go screwing around with it-"

"An enchantment," Vicente said smoothly, twisting the band in his fingers. "Willpower fortification. I believe it may help you in controlling your magicka."

Avielle was not pacified. "I never said you could - wait. You're lying."

He closed his eyes for a long moment; when he opened them, they were rolled impressively upward. "What makes you think such a thing?" he asked, voice mocking and on the cusp of irritation.

"How stupid do you think I am? I was in the Arcane University. Normal people can't just _enchant_ things."

"I see you never brushed up on your ancient history," the assassin remarked dryly. "Ancient as in over a decade ago, in your case. And are you honestly attempting to brand me as a 'normal person'? I do not know whether to be amused or insulted. No, the act that restricted that school of magic to the highest ranks of your Guild does not predate me. When I lived in Vvardenfell, the Mages Guild had not yet claimed dominion over the art of Enchantment. Anyone was allowed to craft magical items in those days. It was never a popular art - it was difficult to learn, and the numerous failed attempts wore down one's wallet with impressive speed - but I learned the theory in my youth, some hundred years before it was forbidden. I was never exceptional at it, but you could say I have a much better perception of the oscillations of living energy than I did back then, hm?"

_That_ particular aspect, she didn't want to think about too deeply, but the rest of his words were deeply intriguing, especially those hidden behind the lines. "So you lived in Morrowind back when you were alive?" she guessed. "Your accent sounds very High Rock to me."

Vicente gave an approving half-smile. "A good deduction, and wholly accurate. As for accents, my mother was an emigrant from said province - I picked up on that quite strongly in my youth, and vampirism tends to set one's habits in stone."

It was strange, almost alienating, to look at the ancient vampire in his neat black vestments and try to picture him as a child. It was difficult to connect the concept of parents, of youth, of an actual human past to him. She tried to envision Vicente Valtieri as _normal_, tried to flesh out his concave features and pour color into his crimson eyes, but the images refused to solidify in her mind.

Honestly, though, why did it even matter to her? Inwardly, she frowned, not trusting her earlier train of thought. She quickly grasped for another.

"You know, you're not the only Breton around - I can sense magicka too. If you can seriously enchant stuff, then..." She waved a hand in a wide gesture. "The only magical object on you is your sword. Why not spruce up the rest of your gear if you can do that sort of thing for free, on a moment's notice?"

The reply was slow and thoughtful. "I dislike worn enchanted items," he said ponderously. "They tend to distort a person's sense of capability, to make them expect more of themselves than that actually give. I enchanted your ring because I feel that you need it to prevent things from getting worse on your behalf. You may just need it. But never rely... A man who wears an amulet that boosts his fortitude for a single day may enjoy the exultation he gets from his new strength. But a man who wore such an item every moment of his life would find himself weak and despondent if he were ever to remove it - perhaps even fatal if he were to have it taken from him in a dire situation. Tools are practical to use, but they are not extensions of your self... you may one day find yourself without them."

"So?" Avielle crossed her arms. "Your guy in the example would only _feel_ weaker if he never wore it. He wouldn't actually be weaker. I don't see the point."

"In combat, to speak of one is to speak of the other, and besides, Avielle, I believe you're forgetting the fact that I am a vampire. My state my prove a hindrance at times, but where abilities are concerned, I am strong enough without a collection of enchanted trinkets."

"You could be stronger," the mage protested.

The words 'I don't need to be' simultaneously formed and died upon his lips. Yes, he was strong - three centuries of shadows and slaughter had proved his mettle. But in the end, they'd still died, hadn't they? He'd lacked the strength to face the Black Hand the first time around, despite his aptitudes, despite the fact that he was a hunter and they were nothing but prey... and the second, he'd arrived to find them all splayed in their blood like broken dolls...

And he was disgracing them if he was going to fall to pieces every time they chanced upon his mind. He shivered slightly. "Here," he said abruptly, proffering the ring to her. "Take it."

If Avielle was surprised at his sudden harshness, she didn't show it. Desperate for anything to divert his mind, Vicente watched her slide the newly-enchanted circlet back into place, noting its quicksilver gleam and the way her muscles tensed slightly as its magicka washed over her. "You wear it on your ring finger," he noted, more for the sake of idle chatter than anything else.

She snorted. "I'm not married, but it makes men quit asking me out. When they latch onto you, they just won't let go. Knnh. I don't have time for them."

"Hm. That's a problem for you?"

Avielle took offense. "Are you having a go at my looks?"

"No, no." The vampire held up his hands in surrender. "I've been rather distanced from culture. In my day, simply asking a lady on a date, having no pretenses and and pressing her after her first refusal, would generally lead to fighting her father for the sake of honor. I meant no insult. You're a very striking young woman... and," he added dryly, watching her expression fluctate, "before you get the wrong idea, I am _not_ a bachelor."

Which she thanked the gods for, because there were few things more disturbing than a vampire hitting on you. Even if said vampire was remarkably polite and dressed like a dashing gentleman. Once again, it took Avielle a bit of time to grasp beyond what he was saying. "What? Who in their right mind would marry a vampire?"

A strange expression perched upon his features momentarily, but he rolled his eyes and it was but a mirage. "I wasn't _born_ like this. I believe I have already touched upon this.

Oh. Right. She mentally slapped herself for the stupid slip. "My bad. So where's she now?"

"It's been over three centuries," he drawled, treating her to his best pathetic stare. "I've mentioned this number to you on several occasions. 'Alive and kicking' is not exactly an option."

Two for two; now, she really _was_ starting to feel like a complete idiot. "Then what-"

"Has it occurred to you that I prefer to leave some subjects well enough alone?" he interjected.

"I think it's only fair," Avielle criticized. "You know all about my past, but I don't know a thing about yours."

A pause, and then the soft words: "Ask what you will, then."

The girl hadn't been expecting him to give in so quickly, but she hid her shock. "So you were married?"

"Yes," Vicente replied, his tone short. "I met, courted, and married a Breton woman in my early twenties. At the time, I was _alive,_ and perfectly acceptable material for a relationship. I cannot see how this is difficult to comprehend."

She mulled it over. "Huh," she finally said. "What happened to her?"

"I became a vampire, that's what happened to her."

"And?" Avielle folded her arms. "I'd already figured that much out. Your turning into a bloodsucker didn't make your wife just vanish, obviously. Something happened, and I'd like to know that something."

"Do you?" A humorless half-smile pulled at his thin lips, but his eyes were bleak.

"I grew up and lived in Ald'ruhn. My memories of... _life_ are very faded; I can recall almost everything that occurred from the moment my heart stilled, but the specifics before that are all but lost to me. My father always wanted to see me join the Mages' Guild, but despite my penchant for it, magicka never truly interested me. Perhaps like any other young boy, I dreamed of heroics and adventure." At this, he laughed, in that typical harsh and bitter manner. "I certainly wouldn't have guessed myself ending up what I am now. I joined the Imperial Legion as soon as I came of age."

"You were in the Legion?" Avielle just couldn't picture it. It clashed too sharply with what she knew.

This reaction amused the vampire. "You could say that my experiences over the past centuries have rather changed my priorities. I used to be young and idealistic... I had been in the Legion for seven years when it happened. I was... twenty-four? It's difficult to recall, I'm afraid... At the time, I was happily married, still very much in love, and a proud father of one."

...And that was simply _impossible_ to compute with the vampiric assassin that stood before her. "Wait. You had a _baby_?"

"Certainly not. I don't know if you've noticed, Avielle, but I happen to be male."

"You know what I mean," she sighed. "You're somebody's dad?"

"Interesting wording, and I think _was _would be the proper word. As you might be able to guess, I was removed from my son's life when he was at a very young age... but posthumously, I learned that he had grown up in house Redoran, made a small fortune off the flin trade, and moved to High Rock. While I must admit I am not the most doting relative, I believe I currently have several..." Here he paused, flicking a finger as he counted the words, "...great-great-great-great-great-great grandchildren living in the same general area."

The way he said it seemed extremely calm, but there was something in his eyes that betrayed a hint of some melancholy sentiment. _How strange,_ the girl thought, _to watch everyone around you grow old and die while you're still stuck in time..._

"But my progeny is hardly what you wanted to hear about... I confess, I cannot remember my wife's name. As I said, the specifics of my life elude me, and after what happened with her, I tried so rigorously to put it behind me that I actually did manage to forget it. But I loved her, much moreso than I believe I could ever convey. I look back upon those wisps of memory and recall being happy, happier than I have ever felt since.

"I was infected with vampirism on Legion duty. I'm not sure if you're aware, but the anti-vampire sentiment in the land of the Dark Elves makes the stigma in Cyrodiil appear downright friendly. The local House guards were all extensively trained on how to ferret out and kill the unholy. Unfortunately, there was a very strong dislike between the Legion and the Great Houses, and they were hardly keen on sharing their tactics. So it came to pass that I was given the task of leading a contingent of two newer recruits, joined together in tracking down an apparently insane fugitive that was behind three deaths within a single week.

"So when I finally hunted him down, a day's travel north into the lifeless and hostile territory that the Dunmer aptly call 'the Ashlands', I had no reason to suspect he was not human. Crazed and feral, yes, that was the impression I got when he ripped my cohorts apart with his bare hands and abandoned his mace in favor of sinking his teeth into my skin. It was one of the nastiest confrontations I had ever endured, and I shall spare you the gruesome details... but I have always been skilled with a sword, and it was I who walked out alive from the skirmish.

"I returned to Ald'ruhn a day later, mourning my comrades and having no inkling of the true nature of the creature I had brought down.

"One of the perturbing facts about porphyric hemophilia is that the infected will show virtually no signs of sickness until the disease is incurable and the victim is a full vampire. Some minor dizziness, fatigue, agitation... It felt no more serious than a small flu until my heart stopped beating. And I somehow failed to notice that for a fairly long time...

"When I actually became a vampire is somewhat sketchy, because as I said, it took me a regrettably long amount of time to put the facts together. Besides the green glass so often used in weaponry, glass is uncommon in Vvardenfell, and I had no exposure to any mirrors. Even if I had been able to see my reflection, I was less conspicuously a vampire at the time than I am now; my eyes were paler, my skin still colored, my face still appearing in its twenties rather than its nineties. The first thing I noticed was that everything seemed so much brighter; so bright, in fact, that exposure to sunlight triggered migraines. My senses felt as if they'd been bolstered with a spell that refused to wear off. Everything I perceived felt so much more vivid, so intense... and then, of course, there was the fact that I had become perpetually thirsty, and no amount of water could sate it."

Avielle flinched.

"It was only an inconvenience at first, some strange aftereffect of my earlier illness. But as the days passed, it grew into a sort of desperation. I became tetchy and compulsive, while physically I only continued to feel worse. The thirst burned all over, the daylight began to scorch me, and I was constantly disoriented. It was a visible change. People around me began to point me towards healers, claiming that I looked haggard and pale. I'm not sure why I failed to follow their advice, but I am quite glad I did not. If I had, they would have discovered me for what I was and subsequently ended me.

"But with that unexplained malady reaching critical levels, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened. I was on the night shift at the guard barracks - I could no longer stand taking the daylight hours - and I stepped into the common room of Fort Buckmoth to get another futile glass of water. The bunk beds were lined with sleeping soldiers. I noticed a scent that I had been aware of for several days, something that I wanted so badly it was nearly painful. But I had no idea of what that ever-present temptation _was_ until, somehow, my eyes rested on a guard's neck and became completely unable to look elsewhere. My legs moved forward of their own vocation. That was my first confrontation with my new instincts, and it was most definitely the instincts that won.

"And it was only then, with the blood dripping from my lips, that I realized what I had become.

"I was afraid, terribly so. But the blood... after feeding, I felt normal. I felt human, for a time. I could liken it to the case of a Skooma addict; when I focused on life around me, everything eventually came back to the craving, a euphoria that petered away much too quickly. As much as I tried to fight it, I found myself slipping out at dusk - at first, one or twice a week, but that quickly became a nightly habit as the need grew more insistent - to take moonlight strolls, sojourns under the night sky that ended in some poor stranger's house, with my teeth in the owner's neck. Oh, don't look at me like that; to my credit, I killed not a one of them. They felt nothing; they suffered no more than waking up dizzy from blood loss. If anyone had been suffering at the time, it was me. I was completely lost, and I knew well enough that any attempts to go for help would result in my execution. I was clinging to humanity as best I could, but it was a broken cause, a race that I had lost before I began running. And gradually but surely, I felt myself slipping. I tried to tell myself that I wasn't hurting anyone, that I wasn't killing, that I was doing all I could... but I could _feel_ it. The urges and impulses kept growing stronger, harder to resist, the hunger more difficult to quench.

"And then, of course, I was still living with a budding family at the time. Which brings us back to my wife.

"I couldn't keep the truth from her forever. She wanted to know why I kept vanishing at night, wanted to make sense of all the changes I didn't even understand in myself."

He closed his eyes, turning his head away. "She found out.

"She followed me one night. Saw me... hunting. I don't know how she did it, how she managed to avoid me sensing her. It hardly matters. What's done is done... When I returned home, she was waiting for me. I remember it perfectly. The lamps weren't lit, but I could see it all as clear as daylight, the disgust in her eyes and a single word on her lips.

"Vampire.

"She said it tonelessly, without inflection, but with the next step I took towards her, she recoiled. She was holding a knife... it was the first and last time I ever saw her armed. It was... so wrong. I think that she had always been a gentle person, and that my sweet wife should be armed, ready to fight, and against _me_, of all the people... I tried to reason with her. I begged her to understand, that I was doing all I could not to be a monster. But she... she..."

"She what?" Avielle asked, her tone almost soft.

Vicente opened his eyes, and it seemed to her that those red irises were misty, staring at some unknown horror that she'd never be able to see. "She ran. She tried to run, and I... I don't know what happened. Oh, by Sithis, I do know what happened, but at the time... there was nothing, nothing. One moment and she'd jerked forward, trying to get past me, and the next... the next... covered in blood. It was everywhere. I am three centuries old, Avielle. I've had ages to understand the Dark Gift, to control it, to master it. Back then, I was young and scared... and out of control. It always starts like that, finding yourself in a new body with violent impulses you can't keep contained, rearing up when you least expect them. She tried to run, and I lost it. To the human part of me, her running meant that my beloved was leaving me, that she didn't want to see my face again, that she was so terrified of her husband that she'd forgotten all about our baby boy asleep upstairs. But vampirism draws no such definitions... and to that part of me, she was prey. She was trying to escape. And I killed her, Avielle. I killed my own wife. I lost control, slammed her against a wall, snapped her neck, and drained her blood. And came to with her broken shell in my arms."

The Breton girl went as white as a sheet; partly with disgust, and partly with... pity, somehow. It was the look in his eyes, the unspeakable horror as he continued on.

"I may be a man, but I'm also an animal. That half of me would do the same thing, a thousand times over. And _that_ was why I joined the Brotherhood, Avielle. That was why I accepted without a second thought when they came to me so long after. You asked me once how I justified murder? Better to channel that madness on people scheduled for execution than those whose lives stretch out unhindered. I'm a killer either way."

"Are you really?" The words came unbidden.

One pale brow lifted. "I've told you what I was too afraid of to admit to anyone else, and you ask me if I'm not a murderer by nature?"

To this, the girl did not know what to say.

"What happened then?" she ventured, after a profound silence.

"I fled. There was nothing else to do, nothing to go back to, and I was too much a coward to face what I had done. I took our baby - he slept through the whole thing, by some unknown mercy - and left him swathed in blankets at my neighbor's doorstep. With that, I cut my ties and let go of humanity. I went to the Ashlands and lived as a predator.

"In Morrowind, there are three major clans of vampires; bloodlines, if you will. Each had their own aptitudes; clan Quarra is known for brute strength, the Berne vampires are masters of stealth, and Aundae are powerful sorcerers."

"Let me guess - you're a Bren or whatever the second one was?"

"Actually, no. I was bitten by a Quarra vampire. My penchant for stealth is something I learned, not something I automatically gained upon dying. All vampires have enhanced skills in certain fields, but my natural capacity for remaining unseen is no greater than any other of my kind. I doubt you would notice the difference, but I am physically stronger than the vampires you will find in this province. My vampiric ancestry is the reason why I can easily wield a claymore in one hand. But where was I? Ah, yes. Over the years, I gradually wandered upwards through the foyada - ashland valleys formed by ancient rivers of magma - and away from Ald'ruhn, towards the Sea of Ghosts. Spending my days in tombs and caverns, my bloodlust barely sated by the scarce fauna, I lived as an animal. I stayed away from the cities; guards knew me for what I was then, and the few times I tried to creep in, I barely managed to escape. By the time I happened to stumble into the Dwarven ruin that serves as clan Quarra's nest, I had all but forgotten how to speak.

"Had I not been of Quarra descent, they would have killed me immediately. I have no doubt they could have - I was starved and weak, while they were all in full strength, and there was an assortment of deadly weapons at my throat. But since I was their fledgeling, they saw it as an obligation to take me in, even if they made it very clear that they had no love for me. They considered me a mistake, an abomination among abominations. 'Accident', they called me.

"I spent perhaps two decades there; it was from their armory that I was given the weapon I carry with me now." He gestured to the sword strapped on his back. "Since I was younger than them, I could still withstand the sun's rays when I was well-fed, and they made use of me as a scout. They taught me many things; how to hunt, how to manipulate, how to control my more carnal instincts and hone the magical abilities that come with the unlife. The clan kept living slaves as cattle, blood harvesting. The treatment could only be described as barbaric; they fed from them while the victim was still awake and aware, and they often brought them close to death with their unchecked voracity. I confess, I was too far gone to care about the cruelty of it, and having the blood of men and mer quickly nourished me back to health. But despite the time I lived within their halls, it was never really a home to me. Being around people, no matter how loosely 'people' was defined, brought back the entirety of civilization to me. When I reflected on what I was, I felt more like an animal than I had when I hunted in the wilderness.

"So when I learned that the western provinces were said to be much less opposed to my kind, I left without a backwards glance..." He stopped, as if realizing something. "And here I am, giving you my spoken autobiography in response to a single question."

"I'm listening." And she had been - the supernatural elements woven so darkly in his words made his tale sound half like a recollection and half like a novel, riddled with intrigue.

"As I am aware. But I've said more than enough. In time, perhaps, I may share my life story. For now, we are practically strangers."

There was finality in Vicente's tone, and some intangible spell was broken; Avielle ceased to see his vibrantly woven past self in the memories he'd recalled, and he was once again the black-garbed assassin. But the departure of that accidental intimacy, the closeness, had not faded as completely. There was a lingering trace of understanding that hung tentatively between them where both hostility and unbridled openness had both had their time to fill.

Avielle's quietude came not from lack of curiosity, but because she was finally breaching the realization that beneath the vampire's 'remorseless killer' act lived a self-inclusive moral code, philosophies, and most shockingly, some notion of guilt. She hadn't even considered him capable of it, and she resolved to learn more. _It's not like I like him or anything,_ she reasoned. _I just may as well figure him out if I'm going to be stuck with him for so long._

But was that really the case? The mage was unfamiliar with feeling any intrigue towards people at all. Generally, they fell into one of two categories for her - irritating and unbearably irritating. Maybe there was something to them, but Avielle never felt like listening. Why bother to get to know people when the only person she ever looked up to was dead? She kept a few acquaintances, but even her closest cohorts she kept at arm's length. The only object in her life that deserved much attention was revenge. _Not_ a certain assassin who happened to be tagging along.

Passing interest, Avielle decided firmly. She was stuck with his company and she'd be safer learning about the vampire so that she didn't screw up again and wake up one morning with his fangs in her neck. That was all it was. There was nothing more to it.

Right?


	19. Learning the Basics

**If I owned Oblivion, I would have never killed off my favorite character, so I think all ownership issues are fairly self-explanatory. Thanks so much for all your reviews, people :D Random comment - I'm on a plane! (as I'm writing this) Also, I just turned seventeen! **

**DualKatanas - I feel bad reading your enormous and extremely helpful reviews when I've been so lax in reviewing B&S... I honestly haven't been on as much as usual lately, but I'll spare you the excuses with a flimsy promise to catch up when I can. Description of magicka... free reign, that's what authors are for. I often prefer to take a more scientific approach, but magic's a bit hard to reconcile with that. Morrowind enchantment got to be a bit of a pain in the butt when you had to pay over 100,000 coins for something, and most items couldn't hold a constant effect enchantment even worth buying (not to mention running around looking for Ascended Sleepers and Golden Saints just to put a one-point night-eye on your pauldrons)... but Oblivion's stuff really did disappoint me, being pathetic in some regards (feather) and a complete game-breaker in others (chameleon). Wow, off-topic... Wall of text? My monitor is wide, and a lot of those paragraphs are only four or five lines to me. Hm. I kind of like textwalls. **

**DeLyse - Yay, new reviewers! Thank you so much, that trio of comments served to make me a very happy girl. I completely sympathize with the Purification - I have never been able to make it past that point. And no, you don't sound like a coach, no worries. :)**

**Arty - Depressing? I love the whole tragic, self-inflicted regrettable instance-in-the-past thing, but at the same time, I really don't want him to fall into the Mary Sue trap (liek omg so i joind the brothrhod n nobdy lovd me nd my brothers abused me, etc). Was that kind of overdoing it? I did enjoy writing that piece, but... meh, you tell me. And as for epiphanies, well, I did say this was going to be Vicente x OC, and I suppose I've kept everyone waiting long enough... hehe.**

**TwelveEyes - Yay, new reviewer! Here, have a wall of text. I know - you're absolutely correct, and I acknowledge the discrepancy. Been thinking about it for a while now. As a writer, I like to play with things and take ideas from other sources, whether it's other games, books, or even my own ideas. Vampirism, I've done the same thing to. The strain of vampires we deal with in this story are quite similar to those in Cyrodiil, but not perfect replicas. And Vicente, being a Quarra, shouldn't have the 'blending' ability of Cyrodiilic vampires... but I was quite fond of that ability, and applied it to most, if not all, strains of the disease in Tamriel, including his, with my own added gimmick that it fades over time. It made sense, and I like things that make sense. I'm sorry if that gets on your nerves, but... :x The game itself is a bit contradictory. In-game, Vicente says he became a vampire in Vvardenfell - but all vampires in Morrowind have white/silver eyes with no pupils. He has the standard pale red eyes. Yes, they wouldn't create a new eye type just for one character, but that got on **_**my **_**nerves.**

**Lastly - yes, updates are taking forever, but life is annoying like that. And while the past few chapters have been very dialogue-heavy, and this one -could- be more interesting, I promise that the next chapter will be action.**

Avielle had decided with utmost certainty that Vicente's self-approved style of training was complete and utter crap.

Of course, the mage's experience in training had been little more than sitting in a lecture hall, playing absently with sparks twirling across her fingers as a teacher - usually bald, corpulent, and with a voice that lacked any change in pitch - droned about magicka she was certain she could perform better. She'd paid for a few scattered lessons in other skills, and even recieved some brush-ups for free, but nobody had really _taught_ her anything besides spellwork.

When the moon had dipped beneath the treeline, and the beginning hues of apricot toyed with the grey sky, Vicente had shepherded the tired mage to the nearest shelter he could find - the ruined spires of a fort had poked above the horizon. Unwilling to listen to Avielle's complaints about the lack of a proper bed, he'd cast a fatigue spell on her to knock her out, then set her _gently_ down upon what he considered to be a perfectly fine place to rest so he could get on with decimating a nest of imps around the corner in peace.

She'd woken about an hour ago, and the assassin was not fond of wasting time if he could avoid it. And so he'd plunged ahead with instruction, brushing off her muttered comments about a sore back.

The vampire noted Avielle's mounting frustration with a familiar amusement. He was used to it; most of his former students began as cocky introverts completely wrapped up in their own skills, and this girl seemed to have a problem with the entire world. Which meant he'd reach the familiar point soon...

The girl struck at him with the human equivalent of a growl, swiping the dagger in a sideways motion towards his chest. For the umpteenth time, Vicente reached out and firmly clasped his long fingers around her arm, bringing her attack to a brisk halt.

"This is a dagger, not a scimitar. Stab, not slash."

With a disgrunted "hnnrgh", she lunged at him again, form as sloppy as he'd ever seen it. He stopped her wrist once more, subconsciously noting the pulse that beat angrily below.

"A shade too low," he admonished dryly.

Avielle threw the dagger. He plucked it from the air, inhumanly adroit as ever, and lifted an eyebrow at her as he handed the silver weapon back. "This is not a projectile."

"How am I supposed to learn anything if you keep stopping me?" she seethed. "In a real fight, people aren't going to calmly tell me if I'm making a wrong move."

A knowing gleam glittered in the vampire's garnet eyes. "Very well," he conceded. "If you believe this method would help you learn more effectively, then the teacher has no right to deny you it. Come at me again."

_Pompous bastard_, Avielle thought darkly as she drew back for her next strike. _Acts like I don't know anyth- holyfetchinghell!_

This time, Vicente did not firmly halt her blow. She lunged towards the assassin, aiming for the carotid this time - or was it the jugular? whatever - and then everything was a dizzy blur. She shrieked involuntarily as he grabbed her outstretched arm, stopping the blow with pathetically little effort and using the momentum to toss her backwards over his head.

The girl landed on the small of her back, her breath escaping in a harsh huff. Her head spun, and a strange ringing clanged incessantly in her ears. Barely an instant passed in wavering confusion before a shadow slid into place above her as smoothly as a rolling storm cloud. A cool hand clamped down firmly upon her shoulder, pinning her down as if she were possibly capable of moving.

An uncomfortably familiar line of iciness touched ever so lightly upon her neck. Her eyes, travelling downward, latched onto and dizzily followed the ornate, bronze-etched patterns that twisted and flowed around the hilt of a very curved Ayleid dagger. She had never seen the weapon before, no sign of a sheath worn at his hip or a glint of metal beneath his vest, but could she even be surprised by that? Stealth was his aspect, concealment his forte - that much, she was sure of.

And the message was clear enough - _Nice try, but look - you're dead._

Lifting her head a fraction, she stared back into those cool red eyes and swallowed. They were empty, collected, but this close, she could see something else rippling in the depths beneath the otherwise still surface. She was suddenly morbidly aware of what he had told her, of untamable desires that could override all thought and the inexorable hunger that had led him to the Brotherhood -

"You're absolutely right," he said, voice darkly amused, and it occurred to Avielle that had never really been a struggle at all. That ageless _want_ that his features so barely betrayed had always been there, as much as him having red eyes or brown hair. It was a part of him, and one so deeply submerged that she felt almost ashamed for her momentary panic - even though being afraid of a pouncing vampire in close quarters was perfectly justified.

"Yes," he continued, "completely correct, but nonetheless missing the point. In a true fight, as soon as you make a mistake, you will be killed or incapacitated, the latter of which is likely to swiftly lead to the former. At your current level of knowledge, you would not be able to keep up with me if I were to take things as easily as I could upon you. So," and he stood, withdrawing the dagger and sliding it out of sight, "you and I may spar someday, but for now, I ask that you trust my judgement. You need to work on your form and aim. There is more to swordplay than sticking the sharp end into your foe."

He helped her back to her feet. Avielle rolled her shoulders, wincing. "The hell," she gasped, not having regained her breath. "You could have broken my neck just now."

"I picked you up and then dropped you. Don't be melodramatic."

"That was a throw, damn it."

"If I were to _throw_ you, you would shatter like a raw kwama egg." There was a disturbingly pensive look on his face as he delivered the simile. "Hideous. Definitely one of the most distateful ways to kill a person."

The mage's face screwed up at the image he presented. "Yeah, well, we don't all have the unholy strength of the damned."

Vicente rolled his eyes. "Touche, but," and he tapped his ear, "The only thing that little lesson of yours ended up breaking was your confidence, and that does not seem to stay down for long."

"Whatever. Doesn't change the fact that it hurts like hell."

"As I said. Dramatic. Honestly, I fail to understand how you stereotypical mages function in the world when you have virtually no pain tolerance."

"I don't _need_ to shoulder pain," Avielle retorted. "I can heal any scrapes I get instantly."

"No, you can't." The humor was gone from the vampire's eyes, and the suddenly intense seriousness in his tone was borderline unnerving. "You can't right now, and there _will_ be times later in your life where you will find yourself unable to use magicka. You need to learn that the only thing you can ever rely on is your_self._ Know it, shape it, hone it - and become able to function without the abilities you use as a crutch."

"You know what?" The girl was starting to get angry. "That's really damn easy for you to say. You're a fetching _vampire_. You're strong enough to... argh, I don't know, but you can do whatever the hell you want. You're _made_ to be powerful. I don't have that - not that I want it - and I can't just pick up a sword and start swinging it like you do."

"You aren't understanding." Vicente kept his voice neutral. "What you just said may be true, but you still cannot see it from anyone else's point of view. _Physically,_ yes, I am more capable than you. But to do whatever I want? Not in the least. Do you have the majority of the world trying to kill you for no other reason than what you are, Avielle? Do you have to constantly keep track of time, knowing that a simple mistake in that field will almost immediately kill you? Are you... well, I suppose we are both eternally on the cusp of losing our minds, and that a slip could slaughter anyone around us. What a pair we make. But I digress... can you not see it? Know your strengths and your weaknesses. Know yourself."

"My only strength _is_ magic," she protested, tone bordering on whining_._

"You are definitely the most incorrigible person I have ever had the pleasure of teaching," he mused, rubbing his brow. "Perhaps now, it is, and you do appear to have quite a penchant for it. But you are young, and still have plenty of potential to develop that you have yet to test out. I hope to both restore your magicka to you and hone your skills on the side. I might add that most teachers would have given up on you by now. Your ettiquette is painful."

"Most of them do."

"Unfortunately, Avielle, I am still quite patient. I fear you'll have to work much harder if you want to get rid of me."

"Who said I wanted to get rid of you? Well," she backtracked quickly, "I have more issues with you than I have fingers to count on, like you being a bloodsucking assassin who signed off my father's death and thinks he knows absolutely _everything_ and -"

"...I'm not quite sure I want to know where this is going," the vampire cut in, an eyebrow lifted.

"-and probably has several thousand concealed weapons in his shirt alone and... fine. But you seem to have a thing for saving my life, which you were never really obligated to do, and I'd probably have died several times over if I'd never met you, and... in the end, you're actually sort of tolerable."

"'Actually sort of tolerable'." Vicente tossed that around. "I suppose I could take that as a compliment. It's preferable to 'filthy spawn of Vivec and Molag Bal', 'unholy beast', and 'old man'."

It was Avielle's turn to lift an eyebrow, although she wasn't able to raise one singularly and had to settle for both upward. "Who calls you those?"

"Guards, guards, and you, respectively."

"Hmph. Well, whatever. Look, don't start snuggling up to me, but you're not as much of a jackass as I was expecting."

Vicente was not a very snuggly person to begin with, but he allowed to comment to pass unobjected.

"Besides, you know a hell of a lot of stuff, and I plan on taking advantage of that."

_Oh, do _not _attempt to go there_, he thought, highly amused_. _He flashed her his best vampire grin, letting his fangs show quite distinctly. "Really? Nobody takes advantage of me, girl."

_Two can play that game_. Avielle smirked, fairly sure by this point that she could toe the line with him without getting her throat slit. "You're the one that brought me along, didn't you? That implies that you want something from me. And seeing as you're such a _gentleman_, that implies you should give something in return. I tend to get what I want."

Her cocky and self-styled devious effect was somewhat ruined when Vicente burst out laughing. Avielle was partially miffed and partially inclined to laugh along. It was infectious. She'd always assumed that assassins - or vampires - would cackle, but he had a nice laugh; it had the same velvety, mellifluous quality that his voice did.

"Ah, yes, very good," he chortled after he'd managed to calm down. "Perhaps I've succeeded in teaching you something after all. Try that again when you have at least two hidden weapons, one of which is enchanted, and are considerably sure that you could kill whoever you were speaking to if the need arose. And make sure that they believe that you could kill them as well. For now... I admire your attempt at such tactics, but they suit you almost as poorly as a lace dress would me."

Avielle was successfully diverted. "Where in Oblivion did you get that image?"

"One of my Sisters in my Sanctuary tried to get me in one not so long ago." Some of the laugh lines disappeared from his face. "She did not succeed. I consider myself very tolerant, but I do have standards." With this, Vicente lifted his eyes. "I know you have preconceived notions about the Brotherhood, but we were not the pack of psychotic, bloodthirsty murderers you believe us to be. Perhaps psychotic, yes... it was a psychotic and dysfunctional _family_, perhaps not unlike a guildhall you belong to."

The mage was not willing to dig into that topic. "I'm sure. Well, since you were originally teaching me something, I wouldn't mind going back to that. I was honestly hoping you would help me out with my magicka." It wasn't just impatience speaking; she was uncomfortably aware of how everything Vicente had seen of her consisted of incompetence or helplessness, and she was a little desperate to prove her worth. She didn't picture herself becoming a master swordsman anytime soon, and her skills in spellcasting seemed to be the only thing she might have over the vampire.

He sighed. "Very well, but I expect you to go along with my lesson plans in the future. I cannot enlighten a student without discipline... and firmly establishing my positon as teacher." He clapped his hands together in a businesslike manner. "Magicka is not something I am used to teaching. I am proficient, but there was... another mage at the Sanctuary that would cover that subject with promising recruits."

Avielle caught the momentary spasm of his features as he stumbled over the last part. "Was?"

"Is," corrected Vicente, a bit too harshly to be natural. "I digress," he went on briskly, leaving the girl to contemplate exactly what had happened with him. "This is not something I am versed in instructing, and coupled with the nebulous nature of your situation, I cannot be guaranteed that I understand what I'm doing. I cannot stress enough that this is all guesswork. Do you still wish to proceed?"

"Do you honestly think that's going to deter me?"

"No, but I wished to secure myself a disclaimer so that you were in no position to blame me in the event that something does go wrong. I've said what needed to be said; you have been warned."

Avielle snorted. "I'll blame you whenever the hell I want, for whatever the hell I want."

"I know," the assassin said wearily. "Unfortunately. But very well. I expected nothing less. You understand the basic theory of magicka, which will help somewhat. Would you please relay your proficiency in each of the six main schools for me?"

Finally, something that she actually knew how to answer. "Destruction is my forte, and I know a decent amount of Restoration - more healing than fortifying - and Alteration on the side. Mysticism, I'm not that great at, I can only pull off the most basic Illusionry, and Conjuration makes no sense."

"Destruction and Restoration are definitely beneficial for you to know." He called up a viridian spark and twisted it idly through his fingers. "Personally, I find Illusion to be the most useful application, but then again, I rely on stealth and beguilement moreso than you."

"Um, that's great and all, but can we talk about _me_ now?"

Vampire eyes flickered up to meet hers; the vestigial Illusion flame dissipated instantly. "Patience. As I was about to say, I hope to teach you at least some camouflaging spells in the future. For now, practice with your strongest skill. Destruction is likely your most solid base to work from."

"The last time I tried to use that type of magic, I ended up frostburnelectrocuting myself to Oblivion," Avielle pointed out critically.

"It also seems to have damaged your vocabulary. Regardless, that's a worthwhile point. Since you seem to unleash a torrent of the particular school's effects at random if you fail a spell, it would make the most sense to start with safer effects. Alteration and Restoration, you said? I would rather not blindly toy with reality, so does Restoration sound agreeable to you?"

"Probably, if you'd tell me what I'm supposed to be doing with it."

"It's nothing difficult," Vicente reassured. "I simply want you to cast a basic spell. Try to heal your back."

"That's it?" The mage looked blank. "That's just the exact same thing I've been doing each time I screw up."

"Yes, but that ring should fortify your mental acuity. If you try, you may get a different result."

"That's not exactly making me feel confident," Avielle said. "I mean, 'just try the same thing and hope it doesn't blow up in your face'? Seriously? Not for anything, but that sounds like something I would do. And that usually doesn't work, which is why I'm asking you in the first place."

"I cannot merely wave my hands and say a spell to fix everything," he sighed. "However favorable it would be to have things that simple, life generally refuses to work that way. You can back out on me now, but without trying, nothing will heal itself - I can promise you that much."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I just... fine." The dullness in her voice betrayed the Breton's trepidation, and Vicente felt his usual condescending patience where mortal emotions were concerned give way to empathy. He was all too familiar with the demons of the mind.

He cleared his throat and offered, "I'll be right next to you."

"Just because you're archaic doesn't mean you get to be my grandpa," Avielle snarled, and plunged within herself.

Almost immediately, the whirling chaos planted itself within her consciousness, sparking madly with raw power. She could have sworn she'd 'seen' something in her mind's eye for a brief moment - a silvery pool in the center of a raging sea of color. Whether it was an attempt to make sense of something inside her or a complete hallucination, she had no idea, but she found herself falling into the wilder, deeper mass before the image was lost to her. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted up one by one as the unbridled energy raced through her body, prying desperately at her extremities for release.

But this wasn't what she wanted, she knew. Avielle gritted her teeth and tried to keep the growing mass of magicka within her. How the hell was she supposed to do this? What was she looking for? Tremors reverberated up and down her spine, and increasing numbers of sparks jumped from her fingers as the power refused to stay contained.

A rushing noise was beginning to fill her ears, like the indecipherable whispers of a conch shell.

She shook her head. She had to focus on something, something she knew and could use as a reality check. Her first thought was the man before her, and she brought her face up to fix her gaze upon him. But was he real? His eyes were glowing, red and vicious, and the blackness of his garments was spreading across his skin like demonic vines, twisting and grasping -

With a strangled noise, she turned away from him, struggling for breath. It was getting worse, she knew, and... what was getting worse? With a shock, she realized she couldn't remember. Things were bad, but...

And then she understood, because those terrible dark creatures with their shivering forms and bladed limbs were here, circling like vultures. She was afraid because they were going to kill her, to trap her with their burning eyes and tear her apart. They were the end, silent and indelible, and they wanted her.

"Hold yourself together," somebody urged, sounding slow and distorted to her ears. "Focus. You know what is and isn't real..."

But she wasn't sure she did, staring into those hungry eyes, those whiplike movements with which the emaciated monsters closed in on her. A whimper clawed its way up from her throat as she backpedaled, colliding with something cold and somewhat soft.

"I'm here," whispered a voice very close to her ear. "It's just me. You're safe."

Somehow, it _was_ comforting, a beacon of tranquility amidst her rising panic. Avielle clamped down on that, pressing further against whatever surface she had backed up against - she felt it give way and stumble back a step - and desperately clung to that notion. Whose voice had that been? It brought up disconnected bits of memory, of white fingers on a green glass hilt...

_Vicente._

She broke through the confusion. Her mind leapt brokenly from the vampire to the Brotherhood to Skingrad to the Imperial Watch in a frantic, disjointed moment, jerking to a halt at 'enchantment'.

_Enchantment. The ring. My mother's ring._

Avielle focused on the warm feeling of the metal band around her finger, shutting her eyes as she willed the dual gift from her mother and companion to lend her its strength. Icy uncertainty tore at her concentration, but now that she had found the ring, she had something stable to hang on to. She imagined hearing a 'twang' as something intangible within her snapped back into place, and then gentle heat bloomed in her right palm.

Her eyes opened. There were no monsters, no hallucinations - just the dusty walls of an abandoned fort and the realisation that she had backed up against a vampire. Blushing, she detached herself from a rather squished Vicente - he straightened up and glanced at her cautiously. She looked down, somewhat embarassed to meet his eyes, and she caught a gleam; in her right hand flickered a perfect little star of white magicka.

"Avielle? Are you all right?" Vicente questioned.

She didn't answer immediately, uncurling her fingers and freeing the spell. Energy imbibed her body, patching up her bruised back and wrist in a wave of warmth. Only then did she look up.

"I did it! Vicente, I did it!"

He smiled in return, pleased by her success and having never actually seen the girl _happy_ before. It was a wonderful effect on her face, much better than her trademark scowling, and he wished she would do it more often.

"Very good," he praised. "Obviously, there is still much work to go from here, but I wasn't expecting such a quick breakthrough."

"You're such a killjoy," she accused, mock-punching him on the shoulder. "I actually managed to cast a spell again!"

"It is a start, but I'm not going to bring out the champagne just yet. You're still far from your original functionality."

The mage heaved a dramatic sigh. "Let me guess. No recognition, and straight back to trying again?"

Vicente's grin grew wider. "And here I thought I wasn't getting through to you."

The afternoon passed in this fashion. Avielle's capability waxed as time passed, managing to cast spells without hallucinating at all several times. Eventually, though, she grew bored, and her performance dwindled until Vicente had little choice but to concede for the day.

Now she was pacing, waiting for sunset impatiently while the vampire watched her calmly. He lounged against the wall, dusting his cloak absently. Avielle was not very fond of being watched. "Don't you ever sleep?" she asked him, exasperated.

Vicente flashed her a toothy grin. "No rest for the wicked, hm?" he joked.

"Ha ha." She rolled her eyes. "Seriously, when can we leave?"

"We may depart once doing so would not result in my quasi-instantaneous death. You know, it's actually rather useful to have a human around. Would you please go check? As long as the sun is fully below the horizon, the coast is clear for me."

"Fine, fine." The Breton turned and began climbing the stairs which led to the fort's entrance. "And don't call me 'human', it makes me feel like some vampire's servant or something."

"I _did_ kidnap you," floated after her. She lifted her eyes again, unseen by anyone. The vampire's mood was always so _random_. And he had a very saturnine sense of humor.

It was already twilight when she pushed open the old wooden doors, propping one open with her foot. Soft light cast long, faint shadows. She inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh air after a day spent underground. Spring was definitely at the doorstep - no snow remained, the temperature was borderline pleasant, and a tentative daffodil's petals fluttered semi-open by her feet.

The clouds still held traces of pale pink, but the sun was nowhere to be seen. "It's safe, come on," she called back.

Vicente came warily, clearly not having full faith in her verdict. The mage huffed as he finally trailed after her into the dusk, letting the door fall shut with a thud. "Was there a point in sending me out if you weren't going to believe me anyways?"

The vampire shifted, his cloak gliding across the grass. "You'll have to pardon me. I have lived with the most cunning and underhanded minds that one can find in Cyrodiil for a very long time indeed. Trust does not come so easily after that."

"Yeah, but I'm not a fetching assassin."

"No, you most certainly are not, but that sort of caution has kept me alive - figuratively speaking. Old habits die hard."

"Okay, okay, I get it. Not my fault you're paranoid."

"I said nothing even close to implying that." Vicente was a bit exasperated. "We should start off; if we hurry, we can pass Kvatch by far tonight." Seeing Aveille open her mouth, he added, "Yes, pass. I'm sorry, but I refuse to stay at a hotel. They're deathtraps for me. I would prefer to deviate from the road, now that we're close to the city. There are simply too many guards on patrol. Do you need my cloak?"

"No, it's warm tonight." Avielle didn't like the idea of traversing the wilderness, but she dutifully followed the assassin as he headed away from the Gold Road that was vaguely visible in the distance. If she trusted anyone to be able to ward off mountain lions and bears, it was Vicente.

The grasslands were quiet, though, a far cry from the monster-infested dark forests she'd imagined. The vampire seemed to take many random turns which she could not make sense of. When she inquired, he would point something out - the smoke of a campfire, the fresh tracks of an animal - that she couldn't see in the darkness no matter how hard she squinted. She was beginning to wonder if all the trouble she normally ran into was because she was extremely inobservant.

_Then again, he's a fetching predator_, she reasoned, maintaining her ego. _People like me can't be that good_.

It was her, however, who noticed the strange yellow shimmer beneath a lonely tree. She peered further, trying to make it out. It looked like a trick of the light, but she couldn't blink it away. If anything, it seemed to be moving towards her.

"Hm?" Vicente had noticed her staring and followed her gaze.

As she pointed towards the radiance, she finally realized what she was seeing. "Ah, hell." The mage reached for her magical reserves instinctively, letting go when she realized it was probably better to let her companion handle it. But a glance showed that Vicente was not reaching for his sword; instead, he was extending an open hand towards the will-o-the-wisp, as if coaxing a timid bird to perch upon it.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked incredulously.

Vicente didn't reply. He stood utterly still, an effigy scultped of onyx and marble in the moonlight, as the curious cloud of light drifted towards him, little tendrils on the edge poking forth and withdrawing like the paws of a kitten. Slowly, it reached his limb and hovered there, glittering softly.

It was strangely beautiful, but the display was leaving the girl rather unnerved. "Okay, is there a reason you're getting on so well with that thing or is that just some of that weird vampire stuff you can do?"

He didn't look over at her as he answered. "I'm simply fond of them."

"Why the hell would you like them? I mean, they want to kill you and drain your essence or whatever. Doesn't seem very cuddly to me."

"Hm?" The vampire was still staring at the ethereal creature fluttering around his outstretched arm, almost mesmerised. "Ah... they remind me of the sun."

"Oh." Avielle wasn't sure how to reply to that. She hadn't considered that Vicente might lament his inability to see the daylight, but there was something a little heartbreaking about it, now that she lent it thought. The daylight hours were something she took for granted, but picturing a life without the sun shining brightly in the sky each morning was unimaginable to her. And yet that was what it meant to be damned...

_Okay, enough with the gushing sympathy_. What was wrong with her? She shook her head. Pity towards the assassin had no place in her head. Maybe he was using some vampire powers or whatever to screw with her mind.

But even holding onto that thought didn't change the scene before her. It was beginning to dawn on her that despite his flippant humor and unperturbed attitude, Vicente seemed... sad. Regretful? Avielle was not skilled at reading people - generally, she just didn't care - but now that she gave it her attention, he seemed to carry an enormous weight on his shoulders. How he'd regularly stumble in mid-conversation, how random things would instantly deteriorate his mood...

At last, the wisp seemed to lose interest and floated off, humming. Vicente let his hand fall to his side, staring after it.

Impulsively, the mage felt the need to say something, any word of comfort. The only thing she could think of was a lie.

"You're not missing out on much," she offered.

The lack of conviction in her voice would have been evident even if Vicente hadn't been well-versed in seeing through facades. But he was utterly surprised at the gesture. Was Avielle actually warming up to him? She was certainly a piece of work at times, but at others...

_Or,_ he thought, internally cringing, _I am seriously falling apart, to the point where I look pathetic enough to draw water from a stone._

"I've had plenty of time to grow accustomed to this," he said brusquely, starting off again eastward. No need for her to think of him as weak. He did not need children fawning over him after every travesty he underwent.

Avielle followed him mutely through the tall grass, half-stunned and admittedly petulant that he'd brushed her off when she attempted to be nice.

"You, on the other hand, have not. I should apologize for dragging you into my nocturnal lifestyle. Living as a hermit takes plenty of getting used to, and I fear I ripped you from luxury with a vengeance. I maintain that -"

Vicente did not let his words trail off as they occasionally did. Rather, they simply came to a jerking halt, as did his stride. He froze without preamble, head tilted back like a wolf scenting for prey, one palm raised in a gesture for stillness.

Avielle stumbled to pause alongside him. "What's wrong? Why are we stopping?"

"I can smell smoke. And sulphur. Something..."

The girl did not have the senses of a vampire, but even she could see it as she followed his gaze. Upon the mountaintop ahead sat a city, barely a silhouette to her human eyes. Daylight was far from reigning, but there was no denying the vermillion glow on the high horizon, the billowing blackness that towered above that was too heavy for storm clouds. There was no denying how the night was painted in blood, a mockery of the sun that Vicente had almost forgotten.

And his ears alone caught the distant shrieking as Kvatch burned.


	20. Hellfire

**Author's Note - I don't own Oblivion, and a note concerning this chapter! **

**I am aware that the singular of Daedra is Daedroth. However, I refuse to use this grammatically correct form due to the confusion it causes, being the name of a particular type of Daedra. Consider daedra both singular and plural for the purpose of my sanity. I am also aware that Oblivion is not the Tamrielic equivalent of hell, and that daedra are not demons, but... I don't really care enough not to use them synonymously.**

**But just to clear this up, I have a freakish knowledge of TES lore. Only it doesn't stop me from butchering the language, screwing with vampirism, or thinking the concept of a werevulture is far too lame to consider. (Fear me, I'm going to **_**circle above you menacingly**_**.) ...Dude, at least a wereboar could gore you, even if it squeals like a girl. I'm cool with nontraditional lycanthropes, but they have to be larger than a turkey and strong enough to kill you. **

**DualKatanas - As always, you completely honor me. :) Yeah, while I like the occasional good line, the interactions eventually get old, which was why I was never really satisfied with ch19. This one is much more fun, though.**

**Arty - Funny you mention mudcrabs... I altered the game using the console so that all mudcrabs have a scale of 2.5 rather than 0.5, and they're renamed 'Giant Enemy Crab'. Props if you get the reference. I'm so sorry I haven't been keeping up with your fic recently - I'm very fjgshfgbdshjfbedc right now. DX**

**Cola - Yes and no. Yes, it will be referenced to some degree, but Avielle and Vicente are not undertaking it. As I've said earlier, I may touch upon some questlines, but I'm sticking to no predestined plot.**

**DeLyse - I really have no right to be thinking this far ahead, but I **_**sort**__**of**_** have a very base structure upon which to form a sequel. It would happen in Skyrim, though, because after TES5 comes out, nobody will look for Cyrodiil stories. I make no promises; God knows if I'll even manage to complete this one. But it's a thought. And also, I'm nowhere near done. And thanks! Surely my lexicon isn't **_**that **_**good. :P**

**Your reviews mean a ton to me. :D Thanks so much.**

"What..." Avielle stared at the glow on the horizon, not comprehending. The skies looked almost as if they were boiling, the clouds churning red.

"Kvatch," was all Vicente said, gazing north at the mountain. The vampire was not familiar with common life, but there was little doubt in his mind that something had gone immeasurably amiss for the great city to be engulfed in a smothering inferno. The cries were faint, muffled by distance and ambience, but they rang in his ears. He ran his tongue over his lips. Fire had the potential to destroy him, his skin as flammable as parchment. He had no obligations, such a venture would only be in his way. And yet...

"Yes, but - what the - hey! Put me down!"

...he cared, enough to unceremoniously sling Avielle over his back, fix her arms securely around his neck, and take off running.

"You do not have the capability to match my pace," he answered, wincing as she kicked him in the ribs indignantly. "Just hang on."

"If there's something wrong, why the hell are we running towards it?" she yelled, morbidly close to his ear.

The vampire was still trying to figure that out. There was a reason, he could feel it lingering before him; a butterfly that danced just outside of his reach. There was a Sanctuary in Kvatch, but those were Brothers and Sisters he had only met once, if ever, and they were likely obligated to kill him on sight. His loyalties to the Brotherhood were tangled now at best. But he still felt as if there was someone...

It came to him quickly, and the realization brought him no relief. _Na'viri._

And then, mingled exasperation and disbelief. _Sithis. I am falling apart. What in the name of the Void is wrong with me?_

Vicente had a healthy dose of self-preservation. He had not survived for the past two hundred years as an assassin by gallantly throwing himself into danger on the behalf of men and mer that he barely knew. He'd only met the Khajiit once. _Once_. She might not have been in Kvatch at all. So why was he going to intervene in a situation that was highly dangerous on many levels, especially when he had other things to do?

_I am a - I - I slaughter innocents on a regular basis! Sithis, I joined the Brotherhood willingly! I'm not a fetching knight, a zealot, a misguided crusader... what has happened to me?_

What had changed? The Purification? Perhaps, but even so, that had not been the beginning. Ever since that night in Skingrad...

But this was really not the time to ponder semantics. Or was it? He gritted his teeth. People outside of the Brotherhood were not supposed to mean anything to him; having met a target once or twice could never serve to make them less disposable to him.

And yet... _she_ knew _him_. Barely. A glance, a chance encounter. She knew nothing about his past, his predicament, his station... but she could put a face to the name of Vicente, and didn't seem to have a burning hatred of him. Sithis, it shouldn't matter. He knew that it had no right to. But he had very few connections in this forbidding, hostile world, and even the dead needed a Family.

"Let - me - down - you - fetch - ing - ass - hole," spat out his passenger, each syllable in tune with his footsteps. She'd started up again with the rib-kicking, too. Well, he _was_ almost at the mountain... The vampire briefly toyed with the idea of jerking to an instant halt and watching her fly forward, but managing to instill in Avielle a sense of respect seemed as likely as teaching a troll how to play hopscotch. Instead, he slowed down, twisting around to rather unceremoniously dislodge the mage. She landed in a sprawl that he would have found amusing in less trying times.

"Damn it," she hissed as she got to her feet. "I _really_ don't like when you just pick me up like that and run around."

"There are only two other alternatives to this, you know," he retorted as he set off, motioning impatiently for her to follow.

"Try me," came the typical challenge.

"Sithis, this isn't the time..." he muttered. Could he not have even a minute to think? "Fine, then. Option one. I leave you behind. Permanently."

"The other one."

He looked at her over his shoulder, giving her a wide, mirthless grin that aptly displayed his very prominent teeth. "I could always turn you into a vampire. You'd be able to keep up with me on your own that way. It would solve plenty of problems, actually." Despite the teasing threat, his tone was laconic and his expression empty.

She shuddered anyways at the thought. "Gods, no."

"I never intended to do that. Now, please. I am trying to be serious. Stay close," Vicente implored, turning back to the trail ahead as he tugged his hood over his face. "I do not have a good feeling about this."

"Then why in the name of Akatosh are you getting involved?" Avielle asked pointedly as she struggled to match his brisk pace up the path. To that, he gave no reply.

_Ash turns the sky black_, he mused quietly, surveying the obscured heavens. _Not red._

At the base of the winding road that led up to the city, a congregation of people had gathered. They all reeked of smoke and sweat - and blood, although Vicente was doing well enough to be unfazed by it. As he neared it, he was better able to make out the haggard crowd. Some clutched prized possessions to their chests, others prayed, and others still stared blankly around them with hollow eyes, seeing nothing. A lone healer crossed from one refugee to another, soothing scrapes and burns despite her own obvious fatigue. Makeshift bedrolls, mats, and torches had been constructed hastily around the encampment; indeed, Kvatch was suffering a great ordeal for the city to be evacuated. The sounds seemed to fall softly into place, one after another; a young boy's pleas for 'mama', quiet sobbing, the oaths sent skyward towards the Divines.

"My children!" shrieked a Dunmer women, grey skin dark with soot. "Where are my children?"

As the healer wandered over to comfort her, Vicente realized he had made up his mind. He had nothing in common with these civilians - he'd harbored no second thoughts on killing their kind on contract. He was not the type to rationalize a kill by regarding his victims as unimportant as sheep. They all walked and worried and _felt_, and he murdered, but not indiscriminately. Hadn't he lost his children? The patriarch, unable to do a thing as the ones he'd raised and taught were destroyed.

For once, Avielle was silent, tongue stilled by the disheartening sight presented. Her eyes were wide, and very blue in the lanternlight.

"Stay here," he ordered in a low voice. "I will go ahead."

He went forward without a glance back to see if the mage was listening. There was no point; she either would, or she wouldn't. Vicente strode briskly through the mass of refugees. He was paid little heed by the shell-shocked gathering as he passed through their improvised camp. A preist near the far end was giving a sermon on doom and destruction to nobody in particular, doing nothing to help morale.

Vicente's lip curled. He believed in the Nine Divines. Rather, he believed that they existed in some ethereal plane, but were entirely apathetic to the events of the mortal world. He was not bitter about his state, but he had followed their code to the utmost in his living days, and his reward had been a fall from grace and an utter inability to return to their favor. Sithis rewarded those who served Him. Gods that sat back without enforcing their ideals or sending for emissaries were not worth worshipping.

Perhaps this priest's gods were watching Kvatch and perhaps they were not, but either way, the city was on its own.

He sped up a bit as the road curved and began to amble upwards. The entire situation wasn't right. Fire caused smoke, and he could smell that, but it did not paint the skies bloodred, and the heavy reek of sulfur was just as oppressively unnatural.

His hood was obscuring his vision; brusquely, he yanked it back so that he could see better. The vampire growled under his breath when the path turned lazily again, winding up the rock face in a whimsical scrawl. Every moment wasted was another moment for the Khajiit to perish.

People died all the time. It had never really bothered him before; it was a fact of life, as tragic but acceptable as how he would always be hunted for what he was, and that he too would eventually perish. And yet… he knew how it felt to lose everyone you knew in one fell swoop. And to be so powerless…

Frustrated with the path's gently meandering slope, Vicente hauled himself up the rocks, climbing the stone shelf that separated the road's many tiers. He almost slipped on the scree that he dislodged, but he had the balance of a wildcat, and did not join the pebbles that skittered downwards.

The climb was disconcertingly like ascending a giant's stairwell; a vertical stretch followed by a flat plane of the same length where he crossed the next level of the road. His almost surreal path was quickly over, though. In a flurry of leaps and tumbling stones, he crested the final rise and finally saw the city of peril.

Vicente had been to Kvatch before. His memories were of a pleasant city, if a little too bright and well-patrolled for his liking, with fresh mountain air and a constant cool breeze. The favored architecture was primarily of silvery bricks, and everything was cheery and welcoming to the average citizen.

What he saw now could not have possibly borne a more striking juxtaposition to that.

Ruins. Blazing ruins. Soot fluttered down like a smothering fog, obscuring his view of Kvatch. The great gates to the city seemed to be open, but something was in the way, something he couldn't yet make out. A redoubled blast of the hot, foul air slammed into him like a tangible body as he hauled himself onto the highest tier of the road. He reeled momentarily, senses struggling to overcome the sudden onslaught. He shimmied over a few hastily constructed barricades, wondering why anyone would build a wooden gate to protect themselves from fire.

The Kvatch he remembered had been silver. Now it stood orange and black.

Vicente hated fire. Anything greater than the tame flicker of a candle got his hackles up, primal instincts screaming danger as they recoiled from the light. He knew all too well that as strong as his body was, it was as combustible as dry timber. Magic-based fireballs were offset by his Breton heritage, but the voracious blaze that leapt from building to building like a feral beast was fire at its simplest - and deadliest. Had he ever _seen_ so much flame before?

_And to think that I'm doing this voluntarily_, he thought, resigned. _Perhaps I have finally come unhinged._

Between Kvatch's gaping gates and himself was something straight out of an artist's rendition of hell. The cobblestone was blackened and cracked, and a series of arches jutted up from the ruined ground like great jaws. Three seemed inert, but the largest of them blazed vermillion with wild energy. A group of battered guardsmen stood in a ragged line, their movements jerking and wary. The usual ivory-colored uniforms of the mountain city were grey with soot and char, and the darker blotches needed no explanation. The fear among them was almost palpable.

As he watched, the magic field convulsed, and a group of creatures poured from nowhere.

The guards charged with a rallying cry. As the screeches and shrieks of battle split the air, Vicente realized with a jolt that the invaders were Daedra; scamps, atronachs, even a Hunger. His eyes strayed back to the arch. _But that means…_

_It's... Oblivion. By Sithis, that's a gate to Oblivion..._

Vicente had never heard of such a thing, but there was hardly any doubt. Daedric symbols were scrawled on the volcanic rock of the arches, starkly red and angry in their harsh lines. And the sulfuric smell, the tainted sky... there really was no other explanation.

He ducked instinctively at the twang of bowstrings, even though the volley of arrows fell nowhere near him. The creatures staggered back, hissing, as the stream of well-aimed projectiles continued. But none of the guards seemed to have bows…

"Take that, you bastards!" screamed a hoarse but very familiar voice.

Running from the city's open gates was a black figure, clad in golden-green armor. Anything besides its bright armaments and Elvish protection was impossible to discern among the scorched ground and darkness, but Vicente recognized the form immediately.

It was either extreme providence that he'd found Na'viri so quickly, or extreme bad luck. If Vicente was one to believe in karma, he'd have immediately known that it would be the latter. As it was, he was a cautious realist, so he opted for that belief anyways.

He had never actually seen Na'viri in action, but he had to admit that she was impressive, or at least very powerfully driven at the moment. He did not move from his position as he watched her hail arrows upon her enemies, carving a swath through them towards the gate.

A fleck of ash landed in his eye, and he winced, rubbing the sensitive spot. It took him a couple of seconds to remove the offending dust and return attention to the scene unfolding.

She seemed to be in a heated argument with one of the guards, but over the din of battle and flame, it was difficult to make out anything. He strained his ears.

"...let me go!" came the Khajiit's voice, shrill enough to sound nearly like a wail.

"None of the men I sent into that thing ever came out!" the man barked - as he peered closer, Vicente recognised him as Savlian Matius from the profiles that the Brotherhood had kept on all important figures. Kvatch guard captain. Not somebody Vicente wanted to run into, but... he was already up to his neck in trouble.

"I don't _care!_" Na'viri's voice broke on the last word. "This is my goddamn home! I have to... I've got to..."

With a cry, she shoved the guard aside, ignoring his shocked warning of "Civilian!". She ran straight at the portal, clutching her bow. The orange haze shivered between the prodigious stone pillars and swallowed her up.

Matius stared into the wavering barrier for a few moments after, then sighed and turned away, shaking his head.

And Vicente realized that while he'd thought Avielle had a bit of a death wish, he should have been considering himself lucky, because Na'viri seemed hell-bent on getting herself slaughtered.

So, no. He wasn't going to stroll into a burning city. He was going to stroll into a burning hell. Had the years finally unhinged him?

He found himself striding towards the arches before he'd accepted that he was going to go through with all of this madness. The assassin halfheartedly hoped that the guards wouldn't notice him, but he was not surprised when the captain spotted him, approaching him with his sword drawn.

"Halt!"

He could have yanked his hood back up, but he knew that he would be doing himself no favors with such an action while he was being watched. He would be openly advertising that he had something to hide.

"Get back, civilian. This is no place for-"

And of course, without the hood, he may as well have had a choir of drunken taverngoers following him, singing for all authority nearby to apprehend him with all haste.

"You... you're that vampire." The captain's face contorted. "The one that Anvil's been going on about. The assassin."

Vicente rolled his eyes. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I had an evil doppelganger?"

"Don't toy with me!" the Imperial barked, his arm snapping forward to catch the vampire's wrist in a strong grip. "In the name of the late Emperor, you are now officially under arrest. I can assure you that you'll be sent to the gallows."

These threats failed to impress the assassin. "As much as I dislike being the bearer of bad news, I fear that your gallows have probably burnt to the ground. And I really cannot be bothered to wait around for you to construct a new one."

"Are you _taunting _me?"

"I am merely pointing out what should be obvious. Did you notice Kvatch is on fire? Perhaps somebody should have told you."

"Continue this, monster, and I shall cut your tongue out," Matius snapped.

"Don't you have more important things to do?" The Breton was already tiring of the exchange. "For example, helping your men out against a Daedric horde? Perhaps evacuating trapped citizens? My business here is quite benign, I assure you."

"We have enough people dying here without you trying to feast upon them." The fingers around his arm tightened.

"Kindly stop crushing my wrist. I happen to be rather fond of it."

Savlian's response involved attempting to remove said wrist from the arm it was attached to. Vicente sighed dispassionately. "You and your vampire stereotypes. I saw the smoke from the road and foolishly wanted to check and see if a certain somebody was all right. Said somebody just ran into that gateway as I arrived."

"How exactly do you know that citizen?" The guard's eyes were critical and very suspicious.

"I assure you, she suffers none of my tainted reputation. I happened to meet her by chance. Does it make a difference?"

The captain tried to sneer, but it ended up as more of a grimace. "You're right, it doesn't. Since you're going to die anyways. Here and now."

"If you know of my crimes, you also know that I decimated a force much larger and well-prepared than yours. You hardly have any men left. Do not throw them all onto my sword and leave your city defenseless to this actual threat."

"Don't instruct me on how to command my men, criminal!"

"Are you honestly going to arrest me _now?_" Vicente hissed. "Does black-and-white justice mean anything while your city is burning? I mean to go into that gate, and you would be a fool to stop me. The law may paint us as enemies, Captain, but are you so blind to cling to such notions while we stand before the jaws of hell?"

Savlian made a strangled noise. "We don't _want_ bastards like you on our side!"

"Suit yourself." Vicente wrenched his arm free of the guard's grip to backhand a clannfear that had taken an interest in the pair. The reptilian demon flew backwards and collided with one of the inert gates' arches. In a shower of brimstone and obsidian, the daedra's crest shattered, along with half of its skull.

Kvatch's guard captain sucked in a hard breath. He hadn't even seen the creature approach.

"However, I refuse to play your game." The vampire hadn't spared the attacking clannfear a single glance all the while. "You are in no position to pick sides. In another time, we could be guard versus assassin, living versus undead - but this is Nirn against Oblivion, and any of our disagreements pale before that. Now please,_ get out of my way_. My acquaintance is dying in there."

Very few men would have the courage to stand up to an aggravated vampire, but Savlian Matius met his crimson gaze stonily. "I am bound by law to kill you."

_Sithis_, he hated guards... "And if I can close that gate, I save innumerable lives. If I fail, I die, and your laws are satisfied."

"If you _did_ close that gate," the captain said in a tone that bitingly suggested he doubted the outcome, "I'd still have to take you down."

The assassin smiled wolfishly. "Not necessarily. You are a captain of the Legion, and can take charge in times of crisis. If I can destroy the Oblivion gate, pardon me from that little fiasco in Anvil. I would still be a vampire, and therefore always legal to slaughter - but you don't _have_ to apprehend me. And if I perish during this task, consider your problem solved much more easily."

Savlian snarled under his breath. Cursing, he looked from Vicente to Kvatch, lit by hellfire behind Oblivion's parted jaws. When he turned back to the vampire, his eyes were hard. "Deal," he spat. "Go in there, kill as many of the bastards as you can, close the damn gate, and then get yourself killed the moment you succeed. Do you even know how to bring that thing down?"

"I know the theory," he said as he brushed past the guard, shrugging off his cloak. "The portal should be sustained by some magical nucleus-"

"Vicente!" Avielle called breathlessly, finally cresting the twisting path. "For Mara's sake, wait up, will-"

She froze midsentence, probably because the person she was talking to was silhouetted against an enormous arch of onyx, backed with shimmering flames and the darting shadows of demons within.

"Oh, Avielle." For his tone, the assassin might have been discussing the time of day. He deftly tossed his robe to her, which she caught in a dumbfounded stupor. "Look after this, please. And whatever you do, _don't_ follow me."

Just like that, he turned vanished into the magical haze.

Avielle stood blinking for a few moments, semi-aware of the soft cloak in her arms as she tried to take in the enormity of the situation. There was fire, daedric creatures darting around, great stone arches...

A guard was standing near her. "Miss, what are you doing here?"

Some semblance of comprehension dawned upon the mage. _That bastard ran off without me again!_

"You're in my way," she said back laconically to him, brushing past a shocked Savlian Matius as she shrugged the robe over her shoulders.

_Don't follow me? Seriously?_

"Like hell I won't," she muttered, and charged in after him.

0o0o0

Vicente stepped out of the Oblivion Gate into a wall of blazing heat and gaggle of slavering Daedra.

They had him flanked in a semi-circle, blocking the way forward with bared teeth and charging spells. It was not exactly the front lines of Oblivion's army - a few scamps, two clannfear, and an atronach of glittering ice - but they could easily spell anyone's quick demise.

A lesser man would have turned tail and fled back into the relative safety of the portal behind him. Vicente was not a lesser man. In fact, to call him just a _man_ with no glorified prefixes before it would be fairly demeaning.

He'd forgotten just how powerfully Daedra reeked - a mix of sulfur and tar, burning his nostrils. He hadn't encountered more than a few conjurers' familiars in the past, and to have this many fall upon him at once was unpleasantly staggering.

But then again, was anything necessary ever pleasant?

He lashed out with a knee kick as he pulled his claymore free from his back strap, feeling a scamp's ribcage crumble under the force. The vampire was momentarily surprised to see the Daedra begin to dissipate as it fell backwards instead of simply lying inert in death, but he could form a rudimentary understanding as to why. He stood now in the waters of Oblivion, the stream from whence these demons came; what was to say that they did not immediately return to their essence upon defeat? The realities he'd known did not necessarily mean anything here.

This theory was worked out in the span of time it took for him to impale another scamp and one of the clannfears with a single stab. The greater Daedra were quite intelligent, but the creatures he faced now had the subtlety of a charging boar. The scamp was killed immediately, but the clannfear that had so inopportunely positioned itself behind it suffered only a gash on its side. The reptilian monster screeched, a sound like tearing metal. Dark blood trickled down its scaly, peridot-green hide as it lunged forward with its crest fully flared, beak snapping for Vicente's neck. He decapitated it with an almost lazy flick of the claymore.

The other clannfear, a duller yellow-brown, darted towards him, but intercepted the third scamp's fireball. With an angry cry, it leapt after the lesser Daedra instead, which promptly fled.

This left Vicente facing the final and most imposing one of the ragtag group, the only one he considered worthy enough to lend thought to. The frost atronach looked ridiculously out of place in the blazing surroundings. A part of the vampire's mind wondered idly if it was as uncomfortable in the heat as he was. He sized it up, looking for a chink or fault line in the icy armor through which he could slip his sword.

Unfortunately, the atronach wasn't going to wait. It thrust both of its blocklike hands forward, and a massive chunk of ice appeared between them. As it started to throw the missile, he lunged forward and hacked at its midsection, breaking off several pieces of its body.

He felt a biting chill prickle him as his blade connected, somehow offering no comfort against the heat. As he recoiled, the clawing sensation vanished.

_Hmph. I had forgotten about damage reflection properties. Well, no matter._

The atronach had recoiled from his strike, and he took advantage of its stumble, pressing forward. He slashed and chiseled at its body, ignoring the lashes of pain that branded him with every blow, and within seconds, his deadly work had reduced the titan into a subliminating pile of ice shards.

Before taking a single step forward, Vicente took the time to thoroughly survey his surroundings.

It was not his ideal vacation spot. The ground was volcanic rock, its jagged edges here and there as sharp as knives. Behind the portal from whence he'd entered was a flat wall of stone, the cliffs above so high he could barely make out the plants that hung from the top edge. Unnaturally bright lava pulsed and lapped sluggishly against the rocky shores, forming rivers that carved out paths through the wasteland. To his side, the molten rock flared out in a seemingly endless ocean's mouth. An ocean of lava! Yes, he was most definitely not in Tamriel anymore.

It was as he'd expected - fire and ashes everywhere, exactly the last place he would want to be if he were sensible. Whichever Prince presided over this plane had a grim taste in decorations - crude poles jutted from the sides of the way ahead, humanoid skulls skewered messily upon them. A blackened figure lay sprawled ahead, so morbidly burnt that he immediately knew there was no point in checking for signs of life.

There was no sign of Na'viri anywhere. He might have arrived fairly soon after she had, but the Daedra had held him up for a significant amount of time.

He had scarcely taken five paces forward before he heard clumsy footsteps behind him. He whirled, prepared for another attack.

What was actually tailing him was much less pleasant.

"By the gods, if you try to leave me behind _one more time_, I swear I'm going to castrate you."

There was Avielle, in all of her irritated glory. She held her staff in one hand and clutched her dagger in the other, reminding Vicente very much of a child pretending to be a soldier.

"I told you to stay out of here." He tried to keep his voice neutral.

"Since when do I ever listen?" she shot back. "I'm here, so deal with it."

"You-" For once, the vampire was left speechless. "Gah," he uttered inarticulately, waving his hand in a wild gesture. Avielle got a rather sadistic kick out of the show, having proved that her companion was not beyond flustering.

"I what?"

"You incorrigible, arrogant, acerbic, thick-headed buffoon with an insatiable penchant for death," Vicente finished, seething. "Do you realise_ where we are_?"

"Well, Vicente, we're certainly not in Kvatch anymore."

"This is Oblivion!" he exploded. "Can you not see the fire and brimstone, the lava pools, the corpses strewn about for decoration? Everything in here seeks your death! Get back through that Oblivion Gate while you still have the limbs to carry you."

The girl gritted her teeth. "Not a chance."

The vampire fought down the very atypical urge to scream.

It wasn't necessarily for Avielle's sake that he wanted her gone. In such dangerous territory, he couldn't afford any liabilities. She was a deadweight, a hindrance to his mobility and another set of vital organs he had to protect. The oppressive heat here was stressful enough... if she remained here, he would not be able to sink too deeply into his fighting instincts for fear of hurting her. Yet it was something he would need to do once the hordes of Daedra grew thicker.

"Look," he began.

"No." The mage set her jaw. "_You_ look. Every fetching time anything comes up, you shove me out of your way and end up saving me while I cower behind you. I'm seriously not okay with that. If you brought me along for help, it's about damn time I gave you some."

_As much as I appreciate the gesture_, Vicente wanted to yell back, _you're only in my way!_

Instead, he pressed two fingers to his temple and inhaled a deep breath, grimacing at the tang of smoke and molten rock. Avielle had held a tone of complete implacability when she'd spoken, and she did have a point, as likely as her logic was to lead her to the grave.

"Sithis take you," he muttered under his breath. Without looking at her, he yanked his Elven dagger from the sheath and thrust it towards her. Avielle, thinking the vampire was angry enough to stab her in the back, jerked back with a yelp.

"What are-"

"Take it." He shook the blade once, impatient. "Much better than that silver butter knife you carry around, and I cannot afford to watch out for you here."

Wordlessly, she pried the hilt from his fingers. They felt blissfully cool in the scorching heat. The assassin was offering her one of his own weapons? As she turned the decorated blade over in her hands, she couldn't help but wonder how many lives this beautiful little thorn had ended.

"Quit tarrying," he said brusquely. "We have no time. Every second we spend dawdling is another second Na'viri spends fighting for her life."

"Who's that?"

"A friend of mine who entered here shortly before I." With a beckoning gesture, he started down the slope. "Whom, thanks to this delay, I have no lead on how to find."

The girl found the notion of Vicente having _friends_ rather difficult to believe, but didn't feel like arguing with the very terse vampire. "Can't you just follow the carnage?" she pointed out reasonably. "It's not like the Daedra are just going to ignore her."

"This isn't Nirn; there is no mortal coil. When you kill a Daedra in its home plane, it simply disintegrates, its essence returning to the waters of Oblivion. So no, even though that's normally quite a sound idea."

"Are you going to at least look at me when you talk?"

"Avielle, if I need to explain that to you, I fear I'm also going to have to remind you to breathe every passing quartet of seconds. This is not a playground. Since you are fundamentally incapable of paying attention, it falls to me to play sentry." Vicente's patience was growing thin. "So stop this idle chatter. I need my hearing unobstructed."

She dutifully shut up, even if the banter had calmed her nerves. This landscape was straight from a nightmare. They were traversing a rocky, cracked hill, with sickly-looking red plants pushing their way through the gaps in the stone. Jagged cliffs dominated one side of the path ahead, while an ocean of venomously bright lava oozed sluggishly on the other.

Even without Avielle talking, the assassin was finding it difficult to hear anything specific. There was the hiss of and crackle of fire, the slosh of molten rock, the screeches of distant daedra. It was hard to gauge distance in the hot, unfamiliar realm in which he was feeling less and less at ease by the second.

Thus, it was his eyes and not his ears that picked up the figure dashing towards them.

Avielle jerked as Vicente reached behind him, pulling his claymore free of its sheath with a menacing rasp.

A Kvatch guard - or at least a person wearing one of their uniforms - was rushing at them from further ahead. The vampire let his sword drop a few inches; he had overheard Savlian Matius say something about having sent men into the gate, and perhaps this was a survivor. As he came closer, Vicente made out a few of his features - black hair, glossy with sweat, and bright blue eyes that were wide with shock.

The guard was barely a few meters away when he burst into flames.

Vicente ducked, pulling a screaming Avielle down with him, as the blazing body of the guard sailed over them. The wave of heat from the fireball was incredible; every inch of the assassin's skin prickled with the desire to run. There was a clatter and the sickening thud of flesh giving way against ground, and he knew without question that the surviving guard lived no longer.

He leapt to his feet before whatever had attacked the guard could strike again. It did not take long for him to find the perpetrator. An atronach had been chasing the guard - unlike the one he had seen earlier, this one looked like a fiendish sprite made of pure fire. It was larger, too, and had to be of considerable power anyways to have created such a massive blast.

The assassin did not want to get anywhere near it.

He did not yet trust his companion's ability to cast spells unhindered, so it was up to him to get rid of it. And yet, there seemed no clear way. Vicente was fairly proficient at the school of Destruction magic, but what would be effective? There was obviously no point striking it with fire, and he doubted frost-based spells would be potent against a demon of such intense heat. As for shock, he wasn't sure what effect striking flame with more energy would have.

_But whoever said that destroying something was the only way to rid yourself of it?_

He concentrated on his magic as the atronach came forward, its gait lurching, bobbing like a disoriented dancer.

_Hopelessness. Doubt. Fear. I need fear._

Vicente's eyes burned viridian as he channeled overwhelming demoralization through his gaze, willing the creature away. It froze almost immediately, unable to break eye contact. With every second, it seemed to shrink further in on itself, but held its ground. He forced out another burst of magicka, and the atronach's nerve finally broke; it turned and fled with its strangely capering movements into the lava, where he saw no more of it.

He let the power trickle away, quite grateful of his abilities. They had yet to let him down.

_I suppose it only takes once._

"Avielle?"

The mage was still crouching on the ground where he'd pushed her, but she looked up at his inquiry. Her face was drawn with perplexed horror.

"That was... horrible..." Avielle's eyes were wide. "He just died... just like that..."

"Everyone dies eventually," he replied softly. "If it's any consolation, I doubt he suffered for very long."

She shuddered convulsively. "Don't _say_ that! He was just approaching us and then... then..."

He looked at the girl, a distant sympathy flickering somewhere within him. Obviously, she was having trouble coming to terms that somebody who had needed help had so quickly and unexpectedly been extinguished. He recalled a similar feeling, back in his earliest days among the undead - that so many faceless entities could die simply because of his relentless hunger.

But he was well acquainted with death now, and could no longer allow himself to be overwhelmed by such a commonplace tragedy.

"Come on." He extended a hand to her. "There's nothing you can do."

After a few moments, she took it, and he gently lifted her to her feet. She clung to him a second longer than necessary; he could feel her fingers trembling, the rapid beat of her pulse churning in her wrist, the sweat that slicked her palms. She was laid bare to him, defenseless against everything.

Oh yes, it would be so much easier if she hadn't come in the first place. She was a helpless mage, completely naive to the ways of the world. But she was _his_ helpless mage, and he made a silent vow then and there that she would come out of this place alive. He would protect her.

He did not sheathe his claymore as he might have after a fight; there were clearly many foes lurking in wait, and he did not want to lose precious seconds and the element of surprise by constantly reaching over for his weapon.

The trail they followed was by no means a sound one; the cracked, jagged ground was threaded with the occasional thin stream of lava, and the foul-smelling plants seemed to slither and move out of the corner of his eye. Behind him, Avielle was silent; he suspected she was trying to hide her obvious fear.

_She would do well to remember that she was the one who insisted on coming_, he mused. _Of course, it would be painfully optimistic to assume she might learn something from all of this._

"Hey, is that harrada?" Avielle had noticed a thick, tall plant consisting of red, segmented tendrils, growing dangerously close to a gout of flame that belched from the ground. A sideways glance told Vicente that she was straying over to inspect it. "I've never seen more than a dried-up sample. People will pay a fortune for these."

"We don't have time for this," the vampire admonished tersely.

"It'll only take a second... ow!"

The harrada stirred and lashed at the impudent mage who dared invade its personal bubble, leaving a shocked and smarting Avielle with a large welt on her forearm.

She hastily stepped back. "What the hell? You asshole!"

"This is a plant. You cannot possibly engage it in a battle of wits," came Vicente's exasperated drawl. "Now quit fooling around."

Unwilling to concede victory to a disgruntled plant, Avielle took her new dagger and neatly sheared the stalks in half. The stumps wriggled torpidly for a few moments, then slumped over, oozing thin fluid.

"Serves you right, bastard," she muttered as she returned to the vampire's side.

"I don't have time for your antics, Av - watch out!"

She jerked instinctively at the warning, and enormous, scaly claws rent the air inches from her face. She whirled - a massive daedroth hulked over her, greenish venom dripping from its jaws. Chittering angrily at its side was a much smaller scamp, far less imposing but still dangerous.

Vicente moved too quickly for her to follow; her eyes merely failed to see him one moment, and registered him as _there_ the next, unceremoniously pushing her to one side as he brandished his claymore at the impossibly enormous beast. The blow missed, too far for any accuracy, but the next one connected, grazing flesh even though most of the strike was deflected by armored scales. Avielle watched, entranced, as the vampire pressed forward, movements fluid as quicksilver as he danced around the lashing claws and snapping fangs.

She remembered the scamp just in time to see it conjuring up a hissing fireball. The mage dodged to the left as the demon released the spell, missing her by a wide margin. Babbling in some daedric tongue, it abandoned that venue of attack and ran directly at her.

Her first impulse was to run, and her second was to cast a spell, preferrably _while_ running. But she deferred to neither of these urges, standing her ground. The runed Elven blade glittered in the fiery light, sculpted and deadly. Vicente's lessons flashed back to her in disjointed slow motion. _Strike fast, cut upwards, aim for the neck_...

Somehow, as if his soft-spoken instructions for slaughter guided her arm, the blade struck true. It seemed to happen with perverse slowness. The scamp charged just into range as she began the blow. The curved dagger glided skyward, gleaming a muted vermillion in the hellish ambience. It connected with the slightest _snick_, a sound more felt than heard; the daedra jerked, but momentum still carried it forth into deeper impalement, and the visceral feeling of parting flesh reverberated up and down her arm.

Black blood sprayed from the mortal wound, evaporating even as it arced through the air. Avielle watched in stunned shock as the scamp seemed to fold in on itself, crumpling like an empty sack until there was nothing left at all, save a clean blade held forward in shaking hands.

"I… I…"

_I did it_, she thought numbly. _I killed something. With my own hands._

It hadn't been her own hands that had performed the deed, but it felt as such. The dagger had become an extension of her arm in that fleeting, pivotal moment; even now, it felt strangely linked, as though some tie had been forged in blood that promised some phantom connection. It wasn't that the mage had never taken a life before, and she had no moral qualms about slaying animals, but the difference between casting a deadly spell and actually _slicing_, having her nervous system connect with the kill… it was new all over again, a detached horror that left her completely isolated from reality.

The hilt slipped through limp fingers and clattered to the rock.

And everything happened very quickly.

The daedroth's massive head swiveled towards the noise, somehow hearing it over the rest of Oblivion's din. Reminded of much weaker and more edible prey, it lurched away from Vicente and barreled towards Avielle. It was wounded – ichor threaded through its scales in rivulets, and part of its spiny tail had been sheared off – but it made no difference to the dazed girl as she looked up and stared death in the face.

And a sable shadow slipped between the two, brusquely shoving Avielle aside as it raised its sword.

The daedroth collided.

It was impaled immediately, its inertia carrying it straight through the long blade. But Vicente had not had time to adopt any battle stance or even dig his boots into the ground, and even as it began to disintegrate, the massive demon crashed into him, knocking him clean off his feet. He sailed backwards a good few meters, releasing the claymore as so not to mutilate himself. Avielle watched with shock as the vampire hit the rocks with a nasty crunch, rolled over several times as bonelessly as a ragdoll, and then landed in the great caul of fire.

She never thought she'd hear Vicente scream.

It was a high, keening sound, a cry not unlike that of a wounded animal. It rose higher and higher in pitch before breaking off into chokes-

Avielle was up and running before she'd made a conscious decision to do so. All of their differences, his crimes, were meaningless – all she knew was that she had to get him _out_. She was no expert on vampirism, but it was popular lore that one of the most failsafe ways to get rid of a vampire was with fire. They burned up like paper…

With a wild cry, she reached into the blaze and dragged him to safety by the legs, ignoring the biting heat that immediately blistered her fingers. He was lighter than she expected, enough so that she could move him without aid of magic.

She frantically beat down the flames that clung to his clothes and exposed body; when she lifted her hands, they were dusted with ash.

If the thought of having parts of him on her fingers didn't make her nauseous, she almost passed out at the sight of Vicente himself. His torso had recieved the brunt of the fire. Avielle was used to burns being an angry red; the vampire's skin more closely resembled the contents of a spent campfire. His suave shirt was ruined, its charred strips doing little to conceal the surprisingly emaciated physique. Every one of his ribs was prominent. She reached out to touch one and the skin crumbled away like powder.

She recoiled with a cry, just as Vicente jerked weakly, a strangled hiss rasping in his throat. "Kss... sha..."

The burns didn't appear to be the extent of his injuries, either. One arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and a claw's gouge lacerated his neck.

And yet this was _Vicente_, the invincible Vicente...

_I cannot afford to watch over you here..._

But he had.

_Since you're not paying attention, it falls to me to play sentry..._

He'd done so, thoroughly.

_Do you realise where we are?_

She hadn't.

Yes, Vicente was invincible... when he was prepared.

_She hadn't been, and this was the result._

"Vicente!"

He barely responded; his burnt body twitched once as she shook him, a faint noise of protest gurgling from his blackened throat. Yanking back what was left of his shirt, she saw that the damage was even worse than she thought; it occurred to her dully that not only were vampires particularly vulnerable to fire, but while Breton blood would have protected him somewhat against a magical fireball, the blazes of Oblivion were born from heat and fuel, voracious flames that had utterly ravaged his white skin. Without even thinking of her problems with magicka, she called up every healing spell she knew, forcing them out through her panic. Dizziness threatened to overtake her as the air around her shimmered with distortion. The blue-white sparks she managed to summon danced over his burned body and fizzled out, having no effect. She cried out with frustration. Why wasn't it working?

And then she understood.

She didn't hesitate for a moment as she forced his mouth open, shoving her forearm against his fangs. He jerked with a strangled hiss, but through some titanic effort, made no move to take what she offered. Ignoring the sharp pain of tearing skin, she raked her arm across his teeth, allowing the blood to spill freely.

"Drink," she begged. "Take it."

And he did.


End file.
